No One's Hero: Book Two
by The Cynic
Summary: The further adventures of Guin, Rilla, and L'Argent. Seeing as the plot hasn't really developed yet, I don't want to say too much. Second Year. Please read and review!
1. Summer

Light filtered in through the window onto her bed, shining golden slants that somehow managed to find exactly the wrong angle at which to fall into her eyes. Guinivere Marlowe turned over and closed her eyes, attempting to ignore the fact that it was morning. Summer was a time for sleep and relaxation, though the kitten seated on the foot of the bed had other ideas. The gray cat extended a thoughtful paw, batting lightly at Guin's foot where it tangled in the sheets. When this failed to rouse her owner, the feline unsheathed her claws, kneading the girl's foot thoughtfully. With a yelp of pain, Guin shot upward and glared at her cat. "/Liadan/!"  
  
"Mrrow?" the cat purred innocently, twitching her tail demurely around her tiny figure. She exuded naiveté with a palpable aura, sickening, especially if one considered the impish gleam in her eyes. Guin flopped over on her side and began to drift off to sleep once more. Stretching extravagantly, Liadan made small contented noises and returned to savaging her mistress's ankles.  
  
"LIADAN!" Guin exclaimed, swiping her hand at the cat, "That hurts! I'm up, I'm up!"  
  
Liadan waited until Guin stood up, and then jumped off the bed, purring in a satisfied-sounding way. Muttering to herself about ungrateful felines, the girl staggered over to her closet, peering into it thoughtfully. During the summer she preferred to wear Muggle clothing; it was much cooler and more practical in such activities as climbing trees and flying broomsticks. For though Guinivere Marlowe was a pureblooded wizard, the scion of two families that were almost the magical world's equivalent of noble blood, she was above all pragmatic.  
  
Off came the over-sized T-shirt and boxer shorts; on went a sleeveless blue top and baggy cargo shorts. While running a brush hastily through her hair, Guin wiggled her feet into heavily beaten up sneakers, dropping the comb on the counter of a table. Cluttered on its surface were various odds and ends collected over the years: a perfect nautilus, several interesting pebbles, a tail feather swiped from Angeline's giant great horned owl, movie stubs from outings with her best friend Rilla, and a necklace she had woven herself.  
  
The brush instantly became lost in the chaos, though as Angeline was wont to point out, it never looked as though Guin /used/ the thing, anyway. Whenever she said those words, there was an unmistakable irony to her thin smile; Angeline's sense of humor was dry and cutting and showed itself seldom. Not that her words bothered Guin, either, she cared as little for them as she did for the appearance of her hair, and her toes poked comfortably through the front of the left sneaker.  
  
Liadan was batting at her leg again, and Guin turned, about to scold the cat, when she noticed that Lia was trying to call her attention to something. At the window was perched an owl, rather hawkish in appearance, more so than most of his species. Bright yellow eyes peered into the room as he turned his head sideways, attempting to catch Guin's focus. Raising an eyebrow, she opened the window to admit the bird. It was Kerwin, L'Argent's familiar.  
  
Now why would he be sending her a letter, let alone two? "The owlery is near the plum trees," she informed Kerwin, "If you'd like a drink or something to eat. Thank you." Kerwin nudged her hand in an affectionate sort of way, to Liadan's evident disapproval. The cat hissed and laid her ears back at the bird, which flew off in a haughty manner. Guin took the letters and flopped onto her bed to read them. She carefully ran her thumb underneath the fold of the envelope, cursing softly and receiving a paper cut for her troubles.  
  
Sucking the bleeding slash on her finger, Guin read. L'Argent's handwriting was abominable; it was an untidy scrawl that had no refinement whatsoever. In fact, it was quite difficult to actually read, and several times she was forced to squint in order to better decipher a word.  
  
Hey Marlowe.  
What've you been up to this summer, besides annoying the hell  
out of everyone that you talk to? Sorry. Don't glare at me for  
that. (Guin was glaring, but soon stopped after reading that line.)  
Mum and Dad weren't too happy about Uncle Henry, well, Da  
more then Mum 'cos that git was his brother and all.. They reckon  
he's going to be in Azkaban for a while. Anyway. I sent Kerwin  
with a letter 'cos I thought you'd want to know what happened,  
and also because I thought Rilla would want to write a letter to  
you and I know that she doesn't have an owl. So that's what the  
other envelope is. It's a letter from Rilla. This is really going no-  
where but I can't seem to stop writing. It's odd. I know I don't  
talk all that much in real life but there's so much stuff to say  
here. It's been as quiet as could be hoped, but Matilde and Ma-  
rthe are being terrors as usual, and they've been bullying Mer-  
rick something awful. Mum's been in a bad mood 'cos of that  
but otherwise it's business as usual. You and Rilla can meet me  
in the Leaky Cauldron if you want sometime in July.  
L'Argent.  
  
Guin grinned to herself as she read the letter, for some reason it amused her greatly. Rilla's missive was in a regular Muggle envelope, a white, flimsy thing that had been bent in half by accident, and was also pierced with claw marks. Her handwriting was neat, but her grammar was frightening to say the least.  
  
Hi Guin!  
I've been having a great summer so far and I was so surprised  
when Mikael wrote, I didn't think that'd be something he'd do  
anyway it just didn't seem like him. Ma and Da have gone tem-  
porarily insane, I think, because they won't let me out of their  
sight and Ma keeps crying sometimes when she looks at me. I  
guess a near-death experience isn't great for relations with  
parents, but I mean, really! I can take care of myself and I'm  
not a helpless little baby like they seem to think. I'm really  
really sorry to complain to you, but all my friends from the  
Muggle school I used to go to seem kind of boring and dull and  
I don't really want to talk to them right now. Anyway, how are  
you? I'll talk to you in Diagon Alley. Okay? I'll see you later.  
Lots of love!!!  
From Rilla  
  
Guin leaned over the edge of her bed and reached underneath, pulling out a locked trunk. It was quite old, though well kept. Made of red leather, it had tarnished silver gilding on the handles and an argent rendering of the Slytherin serpent stamped on the front. Also on the front was a small lock, it looked rather flimsy, as though a paper clip could wiggle the thing open, but Guin had been improving it. Even the standard Alohomora charm wouldn't work, it took a special incantation that only she knew. The trunk held all her most personal items: stories half-finished and forgotten, letters from her friends, a stash of Muggle comics by an author named Neil Gaiman, and a picture of her father that she'd stolen from a photograph album.  
  
She whispered the charm under her breath, holding her face close to the lock and tapping it with her wand, a length of ebony containing dragon heartstring. With an obliging pop, the catch snapped open, enabling Guin to twist it off from the handle and pull the lid open. Inside, the contents were arranged a bit more neatly than those on her desktop. As she carefully tucked the letters from her friends into the depths of the trunk, Guin withdrew the crumpled photo, smoothing it out and looking at it.  
  
As in all the wizard-world pictures, the subject was moving. Edmund Marlowe was a tall man, rather slim, but with a lanky sort of musculature. Straight dark hair shaded his eyes, which were also dark: serious pools of shadow fringed by sable lashes. A faint hint of humor touched them, crinkling the edges in a sardonic smile, as the man looked off into the distance, glancing sideways. He had something of the "thousand yard stare" so common of World War II veterans, but the youthfully smooth face seemed younger and innocent. Her father was sitting on a white picket fence underneath a plum tree, the same one that was near the owlery. Guin examined every detail minutely, though she had it memorized. Edmund Marlowe wasn't the most active of pictures, though a slight breeze ruffled his hair. He seemed to be thinking deeply on some subject, pensive gaze unfocused.  
  
With a small sigh, Guin smoothed the picture out again, and replaced it into the darkness of the trunk with a care that was almost reverence. Both Edmund Marlowe and his wife, Angeline, had been Death Eaters, supporters of the evil wizard Voldemort. The difference, however, was that Edmund had recanted, a deathbed conversion, for he had been disappeared soon after turning in several high-ranked Death Eaters working in the Ministry.  
  
Guin had done research before, and found old issues of the Daily Prophet, which spoke of the captures and Edmund Marlowe's subsequent death. "Marlowe, who is a lawyer, is married to the Ministry witch Angeline Hunter. He courageously exposed the names of several Ministry officials closely tied with Voldemort....unavailable for comment, Mr. Marlowe told a Daily Prophet reporter to 'piss off and nose around someone else,' though his rudeness may be attributed to stress," read one issue. Another one, with a slightly more ominous tone: "Death Eater-turned-hero, Edmund Marlowe, was reported missing yesterday. Ministry officials confirmed this report....his estranged wife, Angeline, was busy caring for their newborn, and was unavailable for comment...."  
  
The light was shifting as the sun moved. At the door was a house-elf, dressed in a neat tea towel and a fuzzy cap that had once graced the top of a golf club, shyly inserted her head into the room. "Miss Marlowe? We is having breakfast now," she said, and slunk away before Guin could reply. The soft patter of bare feet in the hallway faded, leaving Guin and Liadan alone in the room.  
  
Guin had never liked house-elves. Their servile, cringing mannerisms annoyed her. Much preferred to the ugly little creatures was a woman who was in charge of the house, a former witch named Sarah. She was a plump matron with graying hair and a cheerful smile, and, incongruously enough, a large, red scar on her throat. While Guin never found out exactly who Sarah had once been, or what had happened to her, the woman was devoted to the girl and fearful of Angeline.  
  
"Mrrowl," Liadan exclaimed, and Guin laughed. Sometimes she found that she could almost understand what her familiar was saying, or perhaps it was just the closeness that had developed between the former stray and her young mistress. Now, Liadan was indicating that she was /hungry/ and she wanted to go eat, and Guin could think later. Food was the most important thing right now, especially bacon with crispy fat nodules and scrapple, maybe, yummy pig parts that no human in their right mind would devour...  
  
"Liadan, you are truly disgusting," Guin said lightly, scooping the gray kitten into her arms and running down the stairs of the manor. It was a large place, and by the time Guin had pelted down several staircases and through a few corridors, Angeline was already sitting at the kitchen table, reading the latest issue of the Daily Prophet ("Anniversary of Muggle-Born Girl's Death at Hogwarts" one of the headlines read) but folded it when her daughter entered.  
  
"Good morning, Guin," she said with a light smile, "It's good to see you've finally decided to get out of bed?"  
  
"Well, it wasn't really my choice," Guin said, as Liadan squirmed in her grip, finally hopping on to the table, "Fuzzball here chose to tear my feet to tatters, and wouldn't stop until I did."  
  
Angeline laughed, scratching Liadan on the head. "Good girl. You know when lazy girls are taking advantage of their poor, helpless mums."  
  
Guin looked disbelievingly at Angeline. "You, helpless? Mother, I didn't know you had such a sense of humor."  
  
"Ah! My only daughter, and you see how she speaks to me!"  
  
It was rather odd, Guin thought. Since she had returned from her first year at Hogwarts, Angeline Marlowe had been.. different. Though always beautiful, there was now a special vitality about the woman's features, a rose-colored tinge to cheek and lip; a smile on her face. She had always been closed, though now, in the last few months, Angeline opened, blossomed, turned into what Guin had always thought a mother should be. It at once frightened and delighted her. Scared her because the cause of this sudden transformation was not known, and delighted her for obvious reasons – the nagging question in the back of her mind ("What was Angeline up to?") was silenced in the face of her mother's kidding.  
  
"Don't worry, Mother, I'll take care of you when you're old and senile."  
  
Angeline's pale green eyes, of which Guin's optics were exact replicas, closed, as if in pain. "When I'm 'old and senile,'" she said tragically, "You expect me to turn into a doddering old fool so soon?"  
  
Guin helped herself to eggs and bacon, sneaking a piece to Liadan, who was now lurking underneath the tables. "The way you're heading, definitely," she replied, mouth full of fried potatoes.  
  
"Don't sneak any more food to that cat, or she'll turn into a plump little thing," Angeline warned, nudging Liadan with one toe. "You greedy little beast." Her voice, however, held a faint tinge of affection. She had always been more compassionate towards cats than she was towards people.  
  
They finished their breakfast in relative silence. Guin, for one, was not about to stint her appetite like some girls approaching their teens, she wolfed down three eggs, several pieces of bacon, a pile of potatoes, and two slices of toast. Angeline, on the other hand, delicately ate a grapefruit and sipped at a dainty china cup filled with herbal tea. She had always been an aesthetic at heart, and the meager meal appealed to her sense of the romantic.  
  
"Mother, I'm going out to the grounds to practice flying," Guin said.  
  
"If you wish, dear. I'll be leaving for work soon, if you need anything, go to Sarah," Angeline said absently, scanning the pages of the Daily Prophet again, making a small tutting sound with her tongue. "..My! Disgraceful, these new taxes.."  
  
The grounds of the Marlowe family mansion were expansive, to say the least. Rolling green lawns surrounded the old Tudor home, with many additions in stone and other styles. It was a conglomeration of the years; each inhabitant had added rooms to suit his whims, and the result was a mismatched grandeur to be unequaled anywhere. There was a small duck pond surrounded by willow trees off to one side, and at the perimeters of the grounds rose a high, stone fence and a cast-iron gate patterned in snakes, and cedar trees hiding the rest of the place from view.  
  
The ideal home of the country gentleman, situated comfortably outside of a small, provincial village with an equally quaint name, steeped in the ancient habits of nosiness and tradition. Guin seldom ventured down there, she found that the children her age were rather stupid, and they all seemed to have little ambition: most wanted to work for a boy, Brendan, picking Brussels sprouts on his father's farm, which he was to inherit once he came of age.  
  
The Marlowes had always been a subject of extreme curiosity to them, and a topic of gossip that came up again and again. When her father had disappeared, the villagers talked of nothing else for weeks. ("She done it, I know it. That woman, she's a bad 'un.") However, given the Marlowe family slant towards love of privacy, the furious speculation gradually died down. It was a good thing, Guin supposed, that there were such tall trees and fences to keep curious town-dwellers from seeing into the grounds: it probably would not be beneficial if they saw a green-eyed figure on a broomstick, practicing Quidditch maneuvers.  
  
That was what she was planning to do, after stopping at the owlery and scribbling off a quick response to Rilla and L'Argent. It was a small building, dark so that the birds could enjoy settings closer to their natural habitats, and not particularly crowded. Angeline kept several owls of different sorts, for all occasions and weather. There was a fancy snowy owl with beautiful ebon eyes, for impressing people; the great horned owl which she used on difficult deliveries, and a small round hoot owl for stealth. Guin had her own signature owl; an average sized barn owl. He wasn't the brightest of creatures, but got the job done.  
  
She hadn't even been able to name him. Mr. Eeylops, of Eeylops Owl Emporium, said that the dealer he'd been brought from had named the bird Anatoly, and he was unable to learn to remember a new one. Anatoly took wing cheerfully enough, however, once she'd tied the missives to his legs, but accidentally bumped into the wall on his way out the door. Sighing, Guin hid her face and hoped he'd be able to make it to his destination without severely injuring himself.  
  
It was with some relief that she left the dim and musty shed and emerged into the sunlight under the plum trees. It must have been here, about fourteen years ago, that Edmund had sat on that very fence, the one painted every year with new white paint, shining brightly in the small grove of fruit trees. Guin hurried away from the place, it had an odd quality to it, as though a hint of the past remained in the present, one finger inserted to mark the page of a book.  
  
Carrying her Cleansweep Seven off to a grassy expanse in front of the house, Guin settled on to it easily. There was of course a cushioning charm in effect, so that she could sit on the length of wood without pain, but she hardly noticed, as it was of course invisible. There was a new Nimbus line out now, but Guin wasn't jealous of people like Potter, who had been the owner of a Nimbus 2000 since last year. There were always new models coming out, it was impossible to keep up with them, and she was sincerely fond of the Seven.  
  
Kicking off the ground, she soared into the air, careful, of course, not to rise above the protecting line of trees. It would have been more fun, she thought, if there were someone else to play with, to throw a mock-Quaffle to and catch it in return. But even solitary, the sheer joy of the flight caught Guin in its thrall, and she swooped and dove with a lighter heart. It always comforted her, somehow, to have her hair streaming out behind her as she nudged the broom faster and faster, swerving and dodging as though to avoid another Chaser or perhaps a Bludger.  
  
A running, imaginary commentary in her head accompanied the girl as she flew. "Marlowe with the Quaffle! Ooh, a narrow miss by a Bludger! Excellent flying by Guinivere Marlowe, tapped for the English National team – one of the younger Chasers – dodges a Chaser – a little more speed, perhaps – shoots – SCORES!" Clutching the broom handle, Guin executed a neat loop-the-loop, stomach lurching as the ground and sky flipped around in an endless circle.  
  
Finally she returned to the ground, returning the broomstick to the house. Slightly sweaty and hair messy, Guin decided that as there wasn't much to do, she might as well work on an essay for Muggle Studies, which she would be taking next year. In order to write it, however, she needed to actually speak to some Muggles. But where to find them? The answer, she saw, was staring her right in the face.  
  
Slipping out of the gates was no problem, as Angeline had already left for work at the Experimental Magic department of the Ministry. It was a decent-length walk down to the village, but she had been sitting down so long that her legs were up to the workout. The summer sun beat down on all, but a slight breeze ruffling the trees enabled her to enjoy the day as it so deserved.  
  
The children were playing some sort of game that involved two teams throwing a bean-filled leather bag at the opposite crew. She recognized several of them: Victoria, Brendan, Anthony, James, and a girl named Elisabeth whom she couldn't stand. "Hey," she greeted them, causing a momentary lull in the activity. The assignment was to observe how they acted, how they dressed, their habits. It was a stupid paper, she knew, but that was the work.  
  
"What are you doing here?" James asked, suspiciously.  
  
"I haven't seen you in a while," Guin said pleasantly, "And I missed all your lovely faces."  
  
"Right," Anthony said.  
  
Brendan was usually friendly, and grinned at her. "Welcome," he said, with a dramatic sweep of the arm, "To our humble home. We're playing a game that Vicky made up."  
  
Victoria made a face. "For the last time, it's Victoria. Not Vicky!"  
  
"Sorry, Vicky—"  
  
Victoria swiped at the futures Brussels sprouts farmer with the flat of her palm, but he dodged out of the way, grinning widely. "Aww, c'mon, Vicky, got to do better'n that!" He moved sideways abruptly as Victoria attempted to elbow him in the stomach.  
  
Anthony whispered to Guin, "They /fancy/ each other."  
  
"We do NOT!" Brendan and Victoria interrupted at the same time.  
  
Guin glanced at her watch. She'd have to stay here for several hours, but it wasn't looking like such a grim prospect anymore. Relaxing, the girl turned her face back to the Muggle children who played around her, completely unaware of what this strange child in their midst really was, and what she could do. And she, in turn, found that it was somewhat of a relief, to forget, even for one afternoon. 


	2. 

Guin trudged back up the road to the house, tired. She had joined in the game with the children, though it was nowhere near as exciting as Quidditch. There were several new bruises decorating her arms and legs, the ball they'd been throwing was harder than it looked at first sight. With a tiny smile, Guin remembered that she'd given as good as she'd got, Gregory was limping and Anthony swore that she'd broken his arm. Things with the village children had smoothed out somewhat; they didn't see her as such an outsider. As an added bonus, she had numerous notes on the way in which Muggles behaved.  
  
The sky was no longer a china Sunday blue, it had deepened to a pale rose pink slashed with bold crimson streaks, like blood. The scarlet lines trailed over the horizon, misting into darker purples and royal blues at the skyline. Misty light bathed the Marlowe manor and transformed it into a fairy-tale castle on a hill, where a knight could rescue a stranded princess. In Guin's mind, however, she was not the one awaiting deliverance, nor the one on the shining horse doing the rescuing. That was silly. No, in projected fables, Guin was the Queen or King: the one who got things /done/. No wimpy princessing would do for /her/.  
  
Besides, when you had a horse, no matter how snow white its coat was, the muck in the stables was always the same color.  
  
A sudden squawk distracted her from her reverie, and Guin whirled to find the feathered form of an owl careening towards her. She swerved to the side to avoid its rapid, unchecked descent, and winced as a loud thump sounded. Crumpled on the ground was Anatoly, golden eyes blinking dazedly up at her. "Oh, /Anatoly/," Guin said in exasperation, kneeling to pick the bird up and straighten him out. His head swiveled around experimentally as Guin checked his foot, making sure her letters had been delivered.  
  
"Oh, good, at least you managed that," Guin told him, lifting the creature up. "Ooof," she grunted. He was heavier than she'd expected, but she didn't think that Anatoly was up to the fly back to the owlery. With a sigh, she put off going back and taking a bath, and instead ambled towards the shed, to return her owl to his perch, to rest away the concussion.  
  
The various members of Angeline's Owl Fleet rustled their wings at her disapprovingly as she entered; Guin was disrupting their rest and they were not pleased. Rolling her eyes at the snowy owl, who was looking particularly venomous, Guin patted Anatoly on the head, listening to him make small wuffling noises. They were not usual to owls, but then, Guin had always thought secretly that Anatoly should have been born as a dog: it would most likely have suited his temperament better.  
  
Guin noticed that there was one owl missing: the tiniest one. Odd. Angeline must have been sending letters to someone – but whom? Not only that, but someone who wished to remain secret, or the impressive snowy would be gone, instead of the dun-colored, easy to miss hoot owl. This boded ill, but Guin put it out of her mind momentarily. What Angeline chose to do with her time was none of Guin's business. She settled Anatoly onto the perch and slipped through the door.  
  
-----  
  
To continue the research she had begun, Guin returned to the village the next morning. Liadan followed after her, a tiny gray shadow trailing and swatting at her heels. The cat had, Guin found, an unhealthy fascination with ankles and feet, they caused her to pounce and scratch. Luckily, the people on the receiving end of these attentions usually deserved it, but sometimes, out of habit, Liadan would good-naturedly savage Guin as well, and then act surprised when her mistress yelped and cursed.  
  
"Don't /do/ that, Liadan," Guin told her sternly, "I'm going to have to train you to behave."  
  
The cat resisted any such attempts at reeducation with vehemence, and eventually, Guin simply gave up. "Hi, Greg," she greeted the boy, as Liadan watched him suspiciously. Gregory Brynes was rather short, and his hair a pale, flaxen hue that highlighted dark chocolate eyes. The hair was downy and soft, and feathered around his head and ears. In many ways, he was the exact opposite of L'Argent, right down to the cheerful smile that was usually on his face. Now that, Guin thought, was an odd thing to consider. Why had that particular thought popped into her head?  
  
She was startled out of her reverie by the arrival of the others. The children crowded around her, the girls cooing at Liadan, the boys standing off the side and watching. It wouldn't be good for their image, of course, to be seen petting a kitten. It wasn't "manly." Gregory, however, patted Liadan on the head and grinned widely at her. "It's amazing," he said, eyeing the cat askance.  
  
"What is?" Guin asked absently.  
  
"Liadan," he replied, "The way she follows you.. she's almost like a witch's familiar. Guin? What's wrong?" the boy asked, a bit surprised at the look of shock plastered onto her face.  
  
"I – I have to go," Guin said, and turned to run. Feet thumping against the pavement, Guin berated herself. How could she have ever thought that she could fit in with the Muggles? Closing her eyes as she ran, breath ragged in her throat, the girl bit her lip. She was /proud/ to be a witch, she really was, but sometimes.. sometimes she wished things weren't so complicated. Sometimes she didn't know what to think. But whatever her personal opinions, she couldn't let the village children know her secret. She would avoid them. At all costs.  
  
-----  
  
"Guin, would you mind terribly going to Diagon Alley by yourself today?"  
  
"You'd let me?"  
  
"Well, there is a very important meeting this morning that I must attend, and I won't be able to take you any other time."  
  
Guin peered at Angeline for a moment, surprised. "I wouldn't mind, but.. I can't believe you'd let me do that."  
  
"You know I trust you, Guin, and you're more than able to take care of yourself."  
  
"..Thanks, Mother," Guin said, "Although you've been really busy lately.. it's not like you."  
  
"Are you saying, dear heart, that I don't work hard enough for you?" Angeline's eyes glimmered with amusement and a tiny hint of menace.  
  
"No.." Guin said, treading carefully, "But as I've said, Experimental Magic doesn't usually have such a heavy workload."  
  
"There's been some trouble with a new batch of spells," Angeline said, "Rather dangerous – they're making trouble for the lot of us, I haven't even had time to work on new charms of my own. A shame. I shall see you later – you know how to get to the Alley. You can use Floo powder, if you wish." So saying, she kissed Guin lightly on the forehead, and Disapparated.  
  
A light wind ruffled through the place where Angeline had stood a moment before. The displaced air filled the vacuum left by her presence with a small, barely heard pop. There were laws of magic and there were laws of science, and sometimes the two clashed. Guin shook her head and headed upstairs to find the Floo powder and some money; several days before, she and Angeline had visited Gringotts to fetch the money needed to buy new school supplies.  
  
There was a new teacher that year, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart. Angeline had rolled her eyes when she saw the paper, and clicked her tongue. When Guin inquired about the negative reaction, her mother had several choice words to say about the newest addition to the Hogwarts staff. "He's an idiot. No, not just an idiot, he's a pompous one as well. I think he's been lying to himself all these years about his abilities and he actually believes it now. But you listen to me, Guin, don't be taken in by his looks. He's an incompetent nincompoop."  
  
Angeline flatly refused to buy any of his books, but Guin had seen in the wizard library several volumes of his. They all had glossy pictures emblazoned on the front, of a broad shouldered blond wizard with a strong chin and blue eyes. She had wrinkled her nose upon seeing it: he even /looked/ arrogant, and Guin decided that she preferred dark hair.  
  
The bag was waiting on the counter of her wardrobe; Guin slipped it into her shorts pocket and went to the kitchen, where the Floo powder was contained in an elaborately carved silver container. Like many things in the house, it had a snake-oriented motif, though the reptiles here were creatures that were vaguely reminiscent of medieval dragons, a long, thick body with a bulbous-eyed head. Facing the large kitchen hearth, Guin took a pinch of the powder and tossed it onto the low fire.  
  
It was an odd noise, a sort of silence that resonated deep into her limbs: a noiseless fizzling and snap of the flames. They roared upwards without a peep, emerald green fire high enough to devour a child like Guin. Facing the flame, she bit her lip. "Diagon Alley!" she proclaimed, and stepped into the inferno.  
  
She was falling, down, down, and down again: sliding past a rush of doors and openings too quickly to see. It was slightly disconcerting, but Guin had always enjoyed the ride. It was something like a roller coaster, or the cart at Gringotts, the sheer speed of the motion carried her away into the thrall of velocity. The same thing, she supposed, went to flying. Ah – in sight was the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron, and she slid to a stop and tumbled out onto the hearth.  
  
"Hoy, Guin," Tom greeted her genially, polishing a mug behind the bar. She grinned at the barman, a familiar and welcome face. He was friendly, even to Angeline, and knew most of the wizard world by first name. Tom was that kind of a man – everyone liked him and told him their stories, he remembered them all and passed them along. Without Tom, the Leaky Cauldron would not be what it was, a hub of socializing wizards with grins on their faces.  
  
"'Lo, Tom," Guin said, picking herself up, "Have you seen Rilla or L'Argent yet?"  
  
"Young Mikael's already arrived, he should be haunting Fortescue's shop, an' I haven't seen Miss Jackson 'round, yet. She should be arriving through the Underway.."  
  
"Do you mean the Underground, Tom?" Guin asked gently.  
  
"That's what I said, wasn't it?"  
  
Guin didn't push the point, and instead grinned and waved at him. "I'll see you later, Tom, I have to go buy some of my books!"  
  
"Have fun, Guin – and I hear that Gilderoy Lockhart's going to be signing books in Flourish and Blotts – you might want to check that out. Get me an autograph, maybe?"  
  
"Yeah," Guin replied, though she intended no such thing. From what Angeline had told her about the man, she wouldn't ask him for an autograph if her life depended on it. There was no avoiding the bookstore, however, and it was normally one of Guin's favorite stops. Out of the dark pub and into the sunlight, blinking at the sudden burst of light.  
  
The first stop was Madam Malkin's robe shop; she had outgrown last year's set of school robes (about three inches of wrist and ankle were exposed by the old ones) and needed fitting for new ones. That was always where Guin went first, to get the tedium out of the way – clothes, especially robes, held little interest for her. The Madam, however, was friendly and enjoyed gossip, exclaiming her shock over the heavy workload of the Ministry wizards these days. It was getting so that a body couldn't relax at all!  
  
Next she replenished her store of basic potions ingredients, gagging at the sickly smell given off by leg of newt and eye of frog, and struggled to keep from ripping apart the delicate lacewing flies. Why, oh why, she wondered, did all the potions implements have to stink so horribly? It was as though whoever invented the mixtures purposely tried to make them all as disgusting as possible. The clerks in the store were rather strange, as well, shifty looking men with pale skin, as though they spent most of their time inside. Rather like Professor Snape, she thought, though he was not as .. odd .. as these.  
  
"Guin!" someone yelled, causing her to turn and spill the tiny, marbled black beetles eggs all over the floor. One of the clerks glared at her and began to lecture, but was halted by the arrival of a small, curly-haired whirlwind. Rilla threw her arms around her friend's waist and squeezed her with a strength surprising in such a petite girl. Embarrassed, Guin squirmed out of Rilla's grasp and grinned sheepishly at her.  
  
"Um. Hi," she said, running a hand through her hair. Rilla had a bad habit of greeting her in exactly this fashion. "How're you?" Bending down, she helped the salesman scoop the fallen eggs into a bag.  
  
"Well, pretty good I suppose," Rilla said, glancing belatedly, ingenuously, at the salesman. "Oops," she said innocently, "Sorry. I didn't mean to do that!" At her wide-eyed look of genuine surprise, the man was unable to say anything. Even he hadn't the heart. Grumbling to himself, he charged Guin the required Knuts and shoved the paper package at her.  
  
"You suppose? Something's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing's wrong, per say, but you know my parents.."  
  
"Ohhh," Guin nodded sympathetically, "Are they still being overprotective?"  
  
"Like hell they are!" Rilla exclaimed with sudden vehemence, "They didn't want me to come to Hogwarts again this year. Dumbledore had to come and speak to them! Can you believe it? They're always trying to do this – they're always trying to control my life!"  
  
Guin glanced sideways at the other girl, whose face was flushed red with anger. She had always seen Rilla as something of a milksop, meekly going along with the rules and listening to her elders. True, she mused, Rilla had a spirit of mischief and a Machiavellian streak to her, but she generally played by the rules and let life happen to her without complaint. Still, Guin supposed that everyone had a breaking point, and it seemed that Rilla had reached hers.  
  
"They just want what's best for you," Guin told her, "Even if they're really misguided about it.."  
  
"Eh," Rilla grunted, "That's what everyone says, but it doesn't help. At all."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't worry about it. It's not your problem."  
  
"I don't mind listening."  
  
"I don't like complaining."  
  
"You're not complaining."  
  
"Yes, I am! Now you're just saying that to make me feel better."  
  
"I'm not, I'm really not."  
  
"You are!"  
  
"Okay, okay, I am."  
  
"See?"  
  
"That doesn't mean I don't want to hear, Ril."  
  
"I feel funny complaining. I couldn't complain to people at my old school."  
  
"I'm your friend, Ril. You've got a right to complain to me. No – it's your /duty/ to complain to me."  
  
"Thanks, Guin."  
  
"Ack! Ack! Complain, not hug! No hugs! Help!"  
  
Rilla released Guin, who mock-glared at her for a moment. "Sorry," she said, sniffing. "You're—"  
  
"Stop!" Guin ordered, "You were going to say something sentimental, weren't you?"  
  
"Well – yes.."  
  
"You've already hugged me, twice," Guin said, pulling a sad face, "And now you're going to be sentimental, too?"  
  
Rilla caught the drift of the conversation and adopted an overly apologetic expression. "I'm.. I'm sorry!"  
  
"That's more like it," Guin said, punching Rilla lightly on the shoulder.  
  
"What an utterly touching scene," a voice behind them drawled.  
  
"I don't even have to turn around – I'd recognize the sarcasm anywhere. Draco Malfoy?" Guin asked, wicked grin on her face.  
  
"No!" L'Argent yelped, sounding panicked, "That was a joke, right? You didn't really think I sounded like him, did you?!"  
  
"I dunno. Sounded kind of similar to me. What d' you think, Ril?"  
  
"You'd think," Rilla said, with an equally evil smile, "That you two were twins!"  
  
L'Argent covered his face with his hands. "I just say hello, and look how they cut me up!" he told a passing witch, who gave the three children an odd glance and skirted widely around them. Relaxing, L'Argent quirked an eyebrow at them and shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets and slouching comfortably. "It took me all afternoon to find you two – where were you?"  
  
"Well," Guin said, "I was buying school supplies. I guess that's not too high on your priority list, mm?"  
  
"Nope," L'Argent said with an airy wave of his hand. "School? Hah! I laugh at the very word."  
  
"Maybe," Rilla whispered to Guin, "That's why he's failing History of Magic."  
  
"No, I'm failing History of Magic because Binns is a boring bastard."  
  
"Oooh, he alliterates, too. Why can't you apply that sort of effort to your schoolwork, dearie?" Guin asked.  
  
"It would ruin my image, of course. C'mon, Marlowe, you're an intelligent girl. You should have figured that one out."  
  
"Right. Anyway, genius-boy, we should be buying our books now." Striking a dramatic pose, Guin aped the over-exaggerated concentration of a movie-star protagonist, chest puffed out and hand resting over her heart. "Onward! To Flourish and Blotts!"   
  
"Has she always been a loony, or is this a recent development?" L'Argent whispered to Rilla.  
  
-----  
  
"Oh, no," Guin groaned as they saw the front of the bookstore, crowded with witches and signs that had pictures of a handsome blond wizard with a wide, fake grin. "/He's/ here?" The tanned face of Gilderoy Lockhart   
  
"My mum told me about him," L'Argent said grimly, "The Sorting had couldn't place him. They had to get him to try it again, and it finally put him in Hufflepuff."  
  
Guin laughed. "Really? Mother didn't say anything about that."  
  
"She also didn't tell you that he was always trying to get your mum and mine to go out with him?"  
  
Rilla suddenly burst into giggles, eyes crinkling into a smile. "I can't see him and Angeline the Ice-Queen together... She'd probably kill him!"  
  
"Or at least," Guin mused, "Shrivel his arms off of his shoulders." The other two shuddered reflexively.  
  
"Still... he's /handsome/," Rilla sighed.  
  
Revolted, Guin and L'Argent stared at her, mouths open. "Ril.. Ril, please tell me you didn't just say that.."  
  
"..Lockhart! Gilderoy Lockhart?" L'Argent was saying, mouth twisted. "Ugh. Marlowe, if I run out of vomit, can I borrow some of yours?"  
  
"Well, he /is/," Rilla said defensively. "Let's get our books and go, right?"  
  
They shoved their way past the waiting crowds of witches, many of whom were practically panting with their longing to see the great, the wonderful, Gilderoy Lockhart. One of them, probably a woman a little older than Angeline, was fanning her face and swooning against the wall. "He's so /handsome/!" Guin and L'Argent glanced at each other, then at Rilla, and started to laugh. Rilla, on the other hand, did not look happy at all.  
  
"Oh, stop it," she insisted bad-temperedly.  
  
"Sorry," they chorused contritely.  
  
"...When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography—" Lockhart was saying. Guin caught sight of a small, dark-haired boy clutched under his arm, looking very uncomfortable, with a face almost as red as a Weasley's head. Guin rolled her eyes and sighed, pushing past another witch. "'Scuse me, ma'am, coming through, move out of the way.."  
  
Glancing over her shoulder at Lockhart, Rilla wasn't exactly looking where she was going – with a small squeak, she bumped into a tall, lean man, with pale blond hair, who whirled around in annoyance. His face was, scarily enough, an exact replica of Draco Malfoy's. Rilla jumped backwards again with a shriek. "Aaack! An Aging potion?" she managed, almost knocking Guin over, as well.  
  
"No," the man said coldly, as Malfoy appeared at his side. "Who are these ... children, Draco?"  
  
"No one important," Malfoy sneered. "She's a Mudblood."  
  
"Come, Draco.. It is time." These words murmured so softly that Guin almost thought she'd imagined them. No, that was what the man had said – Malfoy's father. That would make him Lucius Malfoy. From what Angeline had said, a Death Eater... Another unsavory character. They slipped by, through the crowd, just as Lockhart finished his speech and released Harry Potter from his stranglehold. Flushed and angry looking, Harry stalked through the crowd to a girl who was obviously of the Weasley family.  
  
"Right – we need the Lockhart books and /The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2/ and then we can go—" Guin began, but suddenly a commotion in the corner – Arthur Weasley tackling Lucius Malfoy into a bookshelf – books flying everywhere, yelling – the photographer flashing his camera and sending smoke everywhere – complete chaos. Then the assistant breaking it up, dragging them apart, where they stood glaring at each other. Something thrust into the Weasley girl's hand—  
  
"C'mon," Guin said, "It's been a long day and it's too crowded in here." They paid for their books.  



	3. Interlude

----------------------------------------------------------------  
"And now has come the time  
To talk of many things,  
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax,  
Of cabbages and Kings."  
-- The Walrus and the Carpenter, Lewis Carroll  
----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Well, that was interesting, anyway," Guin said as they left Flourish & Blotts, watching the two combatants limp away, Mr. Malfoy glaring poisonously in their general direction. Guin made a rude gesture at his retreating back. Luckily, perhaps, he didn't notice, but L'Argent did, and laughed so hard that Guin was forced to pound him roughly on the back. "It wasn't that funny," she informed him dryly, a bit bemused.  
  
"Yes, it was," L'Argent gasped, face beet red, "Master Lucius didn't see, but darling Draco did! His face, Marlowe, it was priceless."  
  
"Well, I'm glad to know that, if nothing else, I can provide you with amusement."  
  
"You provide me with more than that," L'Argent said, raising his eyebrows as he waited for her to ask what that could possibly be.  
  
With an indulgent sigh, Guin played along. "What would that be?"  
  
"Why, Marlowe, you give me a reason for living! If not for your barbs and insults, everyone would love me, there would be a void in my life, and then I would be sad." He beamed sardonically at them, a sunny, cheerful demon with the features of a child.  
  
Guin wasn't watching, or listening, to him at the moment. "What's wrong, Ril?" Their friend was looking downcast, and a little angry. She shook her head mulishly. "C'mon, Ril, you can tell me."  
  
"You didn't say anything," Rilla said, lower lip trembling dangerously.  
  
"What?" Guin was confused.  
  
"In the bookstore. He called me a Mudblood, and you didn't say anything."  
  
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not a leaping-to-the-rescue type, Ril."  
  
"Yes, you are! You just won't admit it."  
  
"I'm not a Gryffindor."  
  
"You're my friend. You could have said something."  
  
"I didn't think. I'm sorry."  
  
Rilla paused. "Apology accepted. Let's get something to eat?"  
  
"How about Cataldi's Wizard Pizzeria?" Guin suggested.  
  
L'Argent said, "Sounds good to me."  
  
"Yum," Rilla said, inspecting her pockets. Not all of her wizarding money had been spent, enough to split a pizza three ways. Still lugging their bags behind them, the children fished for spare change in their shorts pockets, so that they would have the money ready. The waitresses at Cataldi's were not know for their patience, and there was a constant influx of students and older wizards as well, many with families.  
  
Suddenly, L'Argent stopped and said, "Let's eat somewhere else."  
  
"Why?" Rilla and Guin asked. Cataldi's was in sight; she could see people sitting on tables set outside.   
  
"I just – I don't want to eat there."  
  
"You did a minute ago," Rilla pointed out.  
  
"I changed my mind," he said, grimly.  
  
"Well, we haven't!" Guin said, catching hold of his arm. "I don't know why you've developed a sudden aversion to pizza, but we haven't enough money with just the two of us, and you'll have to go along with it." They dragged him all the way there, ignoring his furious protests.  
  
Cataldi's was a yellow-white stucco building with reddish clay tiles in neat rows on the roof. It proclaimed, in curling white letters across the wide windows, the words "Brick Oven – Magic Fire!" alongside other facts. ("Since 1909!") The wording changed every three and a half minutes, and in the courtyard, framed by low shrubs and stone flower pots, sat circular tables with red, green, and white umbrellas affixed to their centers.  
  
As they stepped past the low, white iron gate, L'Argent cringed and tried to hide behind the two girls. Confused, Guin searched for the reason for his distress, but saw only a blonde girl sitting with her family. "Why so scared, Silverboy?" Guin mocked lightly, nudging him in the stomach with her elbow. He glared wordlessly at her for a moment.  
  
"It's /her/," he replied.  
  
"'Her?'" Guin asked, hiding a snicker.  
  
The girl had seen them, and turned her face towards the entranceway. She was, Guin saw with some disgust, quite pretty, with regular, angelic features, no freckles or blemishes, a soft pink mouth, and wide, violet-blue eyes that were closer to royal purple. She was wearing a light purple dress with a touch of lace at the color – lace! – and soft kid slippers on her feet. The long golden hair was braided and hung long down her back. A friendly smile graced her face, transforming its simple prettiness to beauty.  
  
Guin disliked her instantly.  
  
"Mike!" the girl said happily. "Hi!!" The double exclamation points were audible.  
  
"'/Mike/?'" Guin asked in disgusted disbelief, glancing at L'Argent. "You know her?"  
  
"Yes, he knows me," the girl said, smiling at Guin, who resisted the urge to vomit, "I'm Holly Weatherfield! I'm in your year, I'm a Hufflepuff. I know you, you're Guinivere."  
  
"It's Guin."  
  
"But Guinivere is such a /pretty/ name. I wish I had a pretty name like yours. Holly's so commonplace, you know? Guinivere – it's something out of a soap opera!" Guin didn't have the heart to tell her that it was actually from Arthurian legend. And then, Holly Weatherfield made what could possibly have been the biggest mistake of her life. "Your nickname is so /cute/, though."  
  
I was right, Guin thought grimly, I don't like her at all. "I don't do 'cute,"" she growled, glaring at Holly, who merely giggled. A giggler – bah! Holly's shining violet eyes conveniently missed the venom in Guin's pale green ones; she continued to beam at them as though each child had personally done something to cause her great joy.  
  
"You don't do cute? I don't get it." Holly's face momentarily creased in a frown, but she was soon distracted, and turned on Rilla. "And you! You're Rilla Jackson. Your hair is so beautiful."  
  
Rilla, she of the "beautiful hair," was watching the entire scene with a sort of bemused incredulity, lip trembling again, this time on the verge of laughter. "P – pleased to meet you, Holly," she managed after a moment, admirably fighting back snickers, the end result being that she looked somewhat sick, mouth and eyes twitching. Holly noticed, and was instantly concerned.  
  
"Oh! Are you sick? Are you feeling all right? Are you going to throw up? Do you want to sit down?"  
  
"Holly, dear, we must be going," the mother said, animating herself at last.  
  
"Okay, mummy!" Holly chirped, and waved to them. "'Bye!" Leaning over, she kissed L'Argent on the cheek and sashayed off. "See you at school, Mike!" the girl chirped, and swept away perfectly with her perfect family.  
  
"Please tell me she wasn't for real?" Rilla said, staring dumbfounded after the girl.  
  
Guin, on the other hand, batted her eyelashes at L'Argent. "Oooh, Mike, I'll see you in school? Pretty pretty please with a cherry on top?" She twirled around him in a parody of Holly Weatherfield's gliding movements. "I loooooove you," she cooed, mocking.  
  
"Oh, stop it, Marlowe," L'Argent growled, scrubbing irritably at his cheek, where, unbelievably enough, there was a faint lipstick mark.  
  
"But /Mike/!" Guin said, imitating Holly's puzzled frown.  
  
"Marlowe, quit it, you're going to give me nightmares."  
  
"Really, Mikael, she must be the only one who calls you that," Rilla said, fighting a grin. "So, is it true love, then?"  
  
"I don't even /like/ her!" he yelped.  
  
With a straight face, Guin informed him solemnly, "You know, the lipstick on your face looks kind of like a heart."  
  
"You," he told her, with equal gravity, "Are an evil, evil child."  
  
"I know. It's my besetting charm."  
  
"I could argue that."  
  
"But you won't."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because you know you'd lose."  
  
"Yes," L'Argent said mournfully, "Your superior logic would wear me into the ground, leaving nothing but pitiful, mewling remains, begging for a release from their misery."  
  
"That would have been frightening," Rilla put in, "but at least we know he's being sarcastic."  
  
"Is it possible," Guin mused, "for him to be anything else?"  
  
"I'm sorry, my dear lady, but sarcasm is part of the package."  
  
Guin squinted at him. "Where did this package come from? Was it one of those mad bomber-men in shacks in the Americas?"  
  
"Possibly," L'Argent said cheerfully, "But let's not worry about that – now that the pigtailed-terror is gone, let's get some pizza. I'm starving."  
  
"Yes," Rilla said mischievously, "Kissing pretty girls does work up the old appetite."  
  
"I didn't want her to do that!" L'Argent yelped, which sent Rilla into a gale of laughter.  
  
"Right," she gasped, "Pizza. Now. Before I choke!"  
  
Amusingly enough, Cataldi's Traditional Italian Pizza was owned and operated by a man who looked as though he could have held his own in the House of Lords. Evelyn Epply-Schmidt had a passion for the round, tomato-covered pies that were his living. If given the opportunity, the lanky, pallid wizard would expound the virtues of the different sorts of toppings and cheeses, the different combinations that could form the perfect pizza... "Hello, Mr. Epply-Schmidt," Guin said, "A medium extra-cheese."  
  
"G'day, Guin; Mikael; Amarilla," he said formally, bowing. "Coming right up."  
  
"Hey, L'Argent! Over here! Bring the girls, too."  
  
Guin turned to see who had spoken. "Oh, hello, Ethan," she called. Ethan Montgomery, one of the other Slytherin boys of their year, was close friends with L'Argent, though the gray-eyed boy spent more time with the girls than he did with his peers. However, considering that besides Ethan and L'Argent, the other Slytherin boys of their age were Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, Guin supposed that the two were thrown together by necessity.   
  
Ethan had a round face and mouse-brown hair, coupled with deep chocolate, almost black, eyes. He was sitting at a table with the flame-haired Ravenclaw, Winston Freeman, who was resting his elbow on a thick book entitled, "Candide and Other Stories." They had split a basket of garlic bread, and Ethan swallowed hastily as the other three approached. "Take a seat," he said in a friendly manner. "Haven't seen you lately, Marlowe. Your mum hasn't killed you yet?"  
  
"Not for lack of trying," Guin said, punching him lightly in the shoulder.  
  
"I see the homicidal tendencies are inherited," Ethan said, with an exaggerated wince.  
  
"Watch it, Montgomery," she warned him, as they all pulled out chairs to sit, "Or you might find out just how much I've learned."  
  
"Eeek!" he mock-squeaked, pretending fright. "What's wrong, L'Argent? Garlic smell disagreeing with your delicate stomach?"  
  
"Nothing of the sort," L'Argent said shortly, looking rather uncomfortable. "Well, it's nice to know that you and Marlowe get on well," the boy finished irritably.  
  
Guin shrugged, and glanced at Rilla, who was blushing slightly as she glanced at Winston. That, Guin thought, would make an interesting development. If her friend was indeed interested in the Ravenclaw, Guin wished her good luck indeed – it'd probably be a miracle if Rilla could manage to distract the boy from his books. "Freeman, was it?" Guin asked him, grinning as he nodded. "Sorry – I have a horrible memory for names."  
  
"That's okay," he told her. "Most people remember me, though. There aren't many Winstons around any more."  
  
"A dying breed," Rilla said, with an affected look of tragedy.  
  
"Right," Winston said with a nod. "If you think /my/ name is bad, my younger brother almost got stuck with worse – my parents were going to name him 'Marlborough.'"  
  
"That's /horrible/!" Rilla exclaimed.  
  
"Yes," Winston said, with a tiny grin that flashed very white teeth in his pale face, "But grandmum managed to talk some sense into them, and they settled on 'John,' 'Duke' for short."  
  
"I bet he doesn't even realize what a terrible fate could have been his," L'Argent said, assuming the air of a philosopher.  
  
"Parents," Winston said sadly, "can be cruel. The next child has the possibility of being named 'Voltaire.' You know, I think they're trying to traumatize us for life."  
  
Guin extended a hand, all seriousness and confidence. "You will," she said, "have to be strong."  
  
Winston laughed. "You were right, Ethan," he told the mousy-haired boy, who modestly flattened his bangs.  
  
"Right about what?" Rilla asked curiously.  
  
"Well, talking to people. It's not as bad as I thought."  
  
"You see," Ethan said, "He spent most of first year reading in the Ravenclaw Common Room. Now, I know Ravenclaws are supposed to be bookish, but I thought that was taking it a bit too far!"  
  
"All too true," Rilla said, with a shy smile.  
  
The pizza arrived, and was set on the empty table next to them. Ethan and Winston both turned down offers of extra pieces, explaining that they had already eaten. "But," Winston said with a trace of irony, "We'll stick around to talk." The chatter was easy and fast, flowing from topic to topic; speculating about the new teacher, Lockhart, who all except Rilla despised already; discussing the new courses available; and of course, arguing about Quidditch.  
  
Rilla, as the only Gryffindor at the table, passionately defended her team's chance at winning the Cup once more. "Of course we'll get it!" she said, "Harry's on our team!"  
  
"He is human, just as we all are," Winston informed her gently, "And fallible."  
  
Gradually, though, Ethan brought up something that caught everyone's attention. "What?" L'Argent asked, as he hadn't been really listening, up until that moment.  
  
Leaning forward, Ethan looked mysterious and rested his chin on his fingers. "Two people have died at Hogwarts in the last fifty years."  
  
"Really?" Guin said, thinking furiously as she tried to figure out when that could have been.  
  
"Well," Ethan amended, "Maybe not /died/, but one died and one disappeared."  
  
"Go on," Winston said, frowning. "This isn't in 'Hogwarts, A History.'"  
  
"Well, the first one /was/ fifty years ago. They found this girl in a bathroom. But the really weird one was in our parents' time." He had everyone's gaze fixed on him now. "A girl, again. They kept it all hushed up, 'cos no one wanted the news to get out. But the facts are, this girl, she told the prefect that she had to use the toilet, but she never came back. Just disappeared. She was a Muggle-born, too, a Gryffindor. And then there was this Hufflepuff who killed himself, a while back, and a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw who got into a duel and killed each other--"  
  
"Where'd you hear this, if it isn't in the books?" Guin asked suspiciously.  
  
"Oh..." Ethan Montgomery said mysteriously, "I have my sources." Ethan's father was one of those rare Slytherins from a Muggle-born family, though he slid into the world of intrigue and magic with the ease of one born to it. As many remarked, "Martin Montgomery's more wizard than most wizards." He was a successful businessman, and had many contacts in both the wizard and Muggle worlds – hence, Ethan was usually better informed than any of the others.   
  
"That," Winston said, "Smacks of myth, to me."  
  
"I hope so!" Rilla said, shivering slightly.  
  
"Look here, Ethan, you're scaring her," Winston added, causing grins to break out on the three Slytherins' faces. "What?" he asked after a moment, frowning at them. "Did I say something funny?"  
  
The momentary sober mood had broken, replaced by light-hearted kidding. Lunch finished, they paid Evelyn Epply-Schmidt and went about their separate ways, waving goodbye. Guin, for one, forgot about the odd conversation started by Ethan Montgomery: she had more important, real-life problems to worry about, such as figuring out why Angeline was in such a wonderful mood. 


	4. Back to School

------------------------------------------------------------------  
"'Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss."  
-- Pericles, Act I, Scene II -- William Shakespeare  
------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Ah," Angeline said, "You're back, finally." She was curled up in one of the over-stuffed leather easy chairs that could be found scattered in the Marlowe family sitting room. It was a piece of furniture straight out of Masterpiece Theatre, right down to the gold buttons in the back. The woman, however, was not respecting the dignity that the chair deserved; her feet hung over the edge and she yawned elegantly while watching her child flop into another seat across from her.  
  
"Yes," Guin said, rubbing her eyes. "We went out for pizza, and then we stayed to see the Alley at night... It's beautiful, Mother. Some of the shop-keepers have fairy-strings in the windows."  
  
"I know," the woman replied, a bit distantly. Her wide, sea green eyes stared past Guin to some point in the past, and the smile that touched her lips was fond. "Your father and I used to walk there, before he went and got himself killed." The irony of the words was evident, though why, Guin could not fathom. Holding her breath, she waited for Angeline to continue, but was disappointed when her mother merely said shortly, "Shouldn't you be going to sleep, dear? It's rather late. You'll be simply exhausted in the morning."  
  
"I'm not really tired, Mother."  
  
"I know. Just go upstairs and lie in bed until you are. You won't regret it the next day, I think."  
  
"But Mother—"  
  
"No arguments. Up, up you go!" she said cheerfully, sliding from the chair and shooing her daughter out of the room and up the stairs. Guin grumbled the whole way, planning to escape once Angeline returned to the sitting room; maybe sneak into the kitchen for a late snack, but Angeline gave her no opportunity. "There. Now sleep."  
  
Guin sighed, flopping onto her bed. Liadan followed closely behind, green-yellow eyes slitting thoughtfully. "Mew," she said, snuggling against Guin's side. The girl hugged the kitten to her, taking comfort from the warmth the animal offered.  
  
"Something's odd, Liadan, and I just can't figure out what it is..."  
  
-----  
  
It was a very strange week that Guin spent at home. Angeline was still unnaturally /happy/, which worried her daughter to no end. All her life, living with the blonde woman was like treading on nails, there was always a vague sense of unease that she would step the wrong way, and bring Angeline's wrath down upon her head. This summer, however, was different. It was as though her mother was a completely different person, one who fell into an easy, chattering repartee and hummed to herself as she worked.  
  
Finally, on the day before leaving for the new school year, Guin confronted her about it. "Mother, is something wrong?"  
  
"Wrong? Why, have I developed dark circles under my eyes?" Said eyes crinkled momentarily, slight dangerous hint to them.  
  
"Noooo.." Guin said, mentally smacking herself. Bad idea, Guin, /bad idea/!  
  
"Guinivere, there is nothing wrong. I'm just ... I'm happy. Is that a crime?"  
  
"No, Mother." She decided that it was a lost cause and excused herself, heading outside. It was cloudy and overcast, a depressing sort of morning that carried a light fog onto the ground, which wisped around the trees with an eerie air of ghostliness. Guin found that the dreariness was inspiring, in an odd sort of way; an idea for a poem formed itself in her head. It was as such, lost in thought, that she was startled by the thump behind her.  
  
Whirling, she reflexively pulled out her wand, ready to repel the intruder by force if necessary. Liadan hissed a warning, and she managed to pocket the length of ebony before the figure noticed. "/Greg/?" she asked, startled. "How – what are you doing here?"  
  
The blond boy grinned mischievously at her. "I climbed over the wall, of course!"  
  
"But /why/ did you do that? You could have broken your neck!"  
  
"I didn't, though."  
  
"Angeline would burst a blood vessel if she found out. Come on, I'll open the gates so you can leave..."  
  
"No, wait, I wanted to apologize."  
  
"Apologize?" Guin asked blankly. "For what?"  
  
"Something I said the other day? I don't know. You ran away; I figured I must have offended you?"  
  
"Nothing of the sort," Guin said, shaking her head.  
  
"Then why did you run?"  
  
"I had to get home. My mother was taking me to London." The magical part of London, but it wasn't a real lie. "Here, come on. We can walk and talk at the same time. Or is that too much for you?" Guin asked dryly.  
  
"You'll be impressed, I know," Greg told her, grinning, "Not only can I walk and talk in tandem, but I can chew gum at the same time."  
  
"Amazing!" Guin said, aping an expression of awe.  
  
"So where /do/ you go to school, anyway?" he asked.  
  
Oh, Gregory, Guin thought to herself, you have the uncanny knack of ruining a conversation! What she said was, "It's a really elite school in Scotland... Mother's an alumnus."  
  
"Oh," he said, shaking his head. "Glad I don't have to go anywhere like that... I've got no family reputation to live up to. I'll be a Brussels sprout harvester for Brendan, just like my dad does for Brendan's dad."  
  
"You don't have to," Guin said, as they wandered down the lane.  
  
"Yes, I do," Greg said, sounding quite resigned to his fate. "What else could I do?"  
  
"Anything," Guin replied, "The world is full of possibilities." She unlatched the snake-gates and closed them again when he slipped out behind her. "You know, they were unlocked. You didn't have to climb over the wall."  
  
"But going through the gates takes away the adventure of it all!" he insisted. "Really, though, there are no other opportunities."  
  
"Make them," Guin said. "Nothing's ever forced upon you."  
  
"I bow down to your wisdom, oh-philosophical-guru!" he exclaimed.  
  
"You know, Greg," Guin said to him suddenly, "I'm glad you climbed over the wall this morning."  
  
"Well," he replied with an impish smile, "That's good to know. 'Cos I wouldn't've wanted to fall into those thorn bushes for nothing."  
  
-----  
  
"So you're friends with the L'Argent boy?" Angeline asked, keeping her eyes on the road as the Z3 zipped through an intersection with careless ease. One of the motorists that she'd cut off made a rude gesture at Angeline, and she calmly muttered a curse in his direction. However, unlike normal drivers who swore often on the road, Angeline's particular hex, used without a wand, would later give the man some rather embarrassing complications involving rashes and itching in unmentionable places.  
  
"Not really /friends/, Mother..." Guin said, squirming in the bucket seat, and trying not to giggle at the thought of what would happen to that poor man when he returned home tonight.  
  
"Oh?" Angeline said, eyes narrowing as she sighted along another sharp turn.  
  
"Well... we're not really /friends/... per say," Guin finished lamely.  
  
"If you ever decide where you stand with the poor child," Angeline said, "You should know that the friendship bears my approval."  
  
"Really," Guin replied neutrally.  
  
"Of course," Angeline said. "I knew both of his parents, when I attended Hogwarts. Aviva was a year younger than Jack, but they're good people. Slytherins through and through." Exactly what Angeline meant by that, Guin wasn't sure, but it took her back to a memory of last year, when Jack L'Argent had told her something of the Marlowe family past: both Angeline and the long-dead Edmund had at one point been Death Eaters. Jack L'Argent had some interesting opinions on Angeline's character, as well.  
  
Changing the subject, Guin asked, "So, Mother – how long will that man's affliction last?"  
  
Angeline smiled a Mona Lisa grin. "Indefinitely."  
  
-----  
  
Guin amused herself by watching those who were obviously first-years, and Muggle-born, attempt to figure out the way into the barrier. One dark skinned boy was frowning thoughtfully at the space between 9 and 10, ebon eyes narrowed as he tried to work out the problem logically. Noticing the auburn-haired girl watching him, the child took in the unleashed cat by her side, the small smirk on her face, and put two and two together. He approached her quietly, and smoothed his face into an unconcerned glance. "Excuse me," he asked her politely, "But would you know how to—"  
  
"Get onto 9 ¾?" she finished for him.  
  
"Yes," he said, relief causing the calm facade to break into a smile.  
  
"Watch me," she instructed him. Dragging her suitcase with her, Guin leaned nonchalantly against the barrier, as though taking a rest while watching the rest of the station. Canting backward ever so lightly, Guin found herself falling through the barrier and into Platform 9 ¾, a hive of buzzing students and wizard parents. She waited patiently for the black boy to arrive after her, and, sure enough, a moment later, he stepped through.  
  
"Thank you," he said, with a tiny grin.  
  
"Not a problem," Guin said gallantly, "You catch on faster than most. My friend Rilla bumped into thing three times before she made it through – she got some odd glances for that!"  
  
The boy's smile, larger this time, as a bare quirk of the mouth, but crinkled his eyes until they almost closed. "I'm Loren Crawford," he said, as though expecting her to laugh at the first name.  
  
"Guinivere Marlowe," she said, holding out her hand. They shook, and Guin found herself instinctively liking the boy. He had a calm air about him, as though nothing fazed the collected mind behind enigmatic sable eyes. Glancing over Loren's shoulder, she saw L'Argent and Rilla. "There's my friends – I have to get going." And then, something prompted her to add in an unusually friendly manner, "Hey, if you've got any questions, come to me, okay?"  
  
"I'll do that," he said, gratified, before being assimilated into a crowd of first-years.  
  
"Hey – hope to see you in Slytherin!" Guin added, but she wasn't sure if he heard.  
  
"Who was that?" Rilla asked curiously, as she pulled and heaved at her heavy suitcase.  
  
"New kid," Guin informed her, "Muggle-born, but not a bad sort at all. His name's Loren Crawford."  
  
"I had a great-uncle who had people call him Loren," Rilla said thoughtfully, "It was short for Lawrence, and he always hated that name."  
  
"I can certainly see why!" L'Argent said, also approaching. His baggage was notably smaller than Rilla's, and he pointed this out at once. "You're turning into a clothes horse in your old age," he told her sadly.  
  
"Am not!" Rilla stuck her tongue out at him.  
  
"As much as I enjoy the unique experience of breaking up a fight between /you/ guys, I'm going to have to step in now," Guin said.  
  
"Awww," L'Argent said, sounding like a little child who'd had his lollipop taken away.  
  
"Hm—" Guin said, catching sight of a small, redheaded girl walking behind two older boys with the same fiery shade of hair. "Looks like we've got another Weasley to contend with," she observed.  
  
"As if the school needed another," L'Argent said sadly.  
  
They boarded the train and managed to battle the suitcases long enough to shove the recalcitrant objects into the overhead compartments. After a moment, Ethan and Winston joined them, both of whom were able to squeeze themselves onto a bench, along with L'Argent, looking slightly uncomfortable. "I swear," Ethan said, a touch irritably, "There's about twice the number of firsties than there were last year."  
  
Winston looked as though he would have pushed a pair of spectacles further up the bridge of his nose, if he'd possessed them. "It's not a /bad/ thing," he informed Ethan. "We can always use more wizards in the world. Especially now that it seems You-Know-Who's stirring." That statement caused some stirring of its own in the compartment as the children shifted uncomfortably.  
  
"Speaking of Weasleys," Rilla said suddenly, "I saw Fred, George, Percy, and Ginny, but I didn't see Ron. For that matter, I didn't see Harry, either."  
  
"Potter and Weasley are probably just buying sweets," L'Argent said dismissivley.  
  
Rilla shrugged. "Nothing could have happened—"  
  
Just then, Hermione Granger poked her head into the compartment. Upon finding it filled with Slytherins, except for Rilla and Winston, she addressed her question more generally towards them. It was not that she was prejudiced against them, Guin guessed, but simply that she didn't expect them to know the answer to what she was asking. "Have any of you seen Harry or Ron?"  
  
"No," Winston said.  
  
"Are you sure?" Hermione persisted.  
  
"Of course," Winston responded, sounding a bit miffed. "I'm not usually wrong about those things."  
  
With a sigh, Hermione turned to the rest of them. "Any of you?"  
  
"No," they chorused.  
  
A small orange head appeared behind her, face pale, worried, and voice uncertain. "Did you find them, Hermione?"  
  
"No, I didn't, Ginny. Let's keep moving..."  
  
-----  
  
After disembarking the train, the small group of second-years stuck together as they were herded to horse-less carriages, clambering into them one by one. Guin caught sight of Loren waiting by the side of the milling first years, the only one who did not look the least bit nervous. She waved to him, eliciting one of the eye-smiles, which he was already becoming recognized for.  
  
The ride to the castle was somewhat bumpy, prompting Rilla to remark that she much preferred the boat trip of last year. "Oh, well," she concluded philosophically, "I suppose we have no choice in the matter." The carriage screeched to a stop in front of Hogwarts, and Guin was somewhat chagrined to find that the other coaches did not seem nearly as worn down as theirs. Sighing, she joined her friends in walking through the doors into another school year.  
  
It was a different sort of experience, passing by the white-faced children waiting to be Sorted, and sitting down at the Slytherin table right away. With another sigh, she found that Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson had returned for another year. On the other hand, friendlier familiar faces were present, as well – Jessica, Blaise Zabini, and several of the older Slytherins who looked out for their younger counterparts.  
  
McGonagall was stepping forward to place the Hat on a three-legged stool, she said something that was drowned out in the buzz of noise – which gradually quieted to complete silence as the hat began to sing. Guin leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, listening and watching as the ragged brim opened up to a dark maw, breaking into song and to her amusement, Guin found that this year the Sorting Hat was harmonizing with itself.  
  
"Once upon a time there was  
A group of mages bold,  
Who rebelled against convention  
And the accepted law of old.  
They formed a school, a haven safe  
Where the future wizards came,  
A place where talent needn't chafe  
Nor cause a source of Muggle blame.  
I was the indirect result of this,  
An afterthought of sorts.  
They swore no wizard-child t' miss,  
But for choosing, lacked a course.  
From whence a means of finding  
That which lay beneath the skin?  
From Godric's head a way of binding  
And Hogwarts Houses to begin.  
In Slytherin, the ambitious sly  
In Gryffindor, the daring fit  
In Hufflepuff, the loyal lie,  
And Ravenclaw, the bookish sit.  
So though I may be ancient, true,  
Don't worry, alarm, or even fear  
Into a home I shall sort you,  
To your new House you will adhere."  
  
Though the tune was catchy, Guin was somewhat disappointed by the rhyming. "I'm a better poet than that Hat is," she told Ethan.  
  
"You know," he told her, "You're always accusing L'Argent of having an ego, but I think that yours is just as large as his is."  
  
As there was no answer to this foolishness, Guin turned her eyes to watch the sorting. Abernathy, James, was approaching the stool, but the Hat did not seem to interest him. He was more concerned with taking in the room around him, and the people in it. In the middle of examining the enchanted ceiling, which sparkled with stars, James Abernathy accidentally tripped over the chair. The Hall rang with laughter as he picked up the Sorting Hat and the chair, sat down, and placed it on his head.  
  
"Either Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff—" L'Argent grinned. A minute later:  
  
"RAVENCLAW!"  
  
"Archer, Rebecca!"  
  
"GRYFFINDOR!"  
  
"Bannon, Conal!"  
  
"SLYTHERIN!"  
  
"Bertram, Alisa!"  
  
"SLYTHERIN!"  
  
"Where's Professor Snape?" Malfoy wondered. "I see Potter and Weasley haven't bothered to show their faces yet, either."  
  
"They weren't on the train," Blaise answered, then shrugged. "And if the vanished into some odd alternate universe," she grinned, "What does that matter to us? Maybe we'll have a chance at winning the Quidditch cup this year."  
  
Malfoy's face turned mysterious, and he shared a conspiratorial glance with Flint. "We have more than a chance at winning. It's in the bag."  
  
"Why?" Blaise asked, curious.  
  
"It's a secret now, but you'll see soon enough!" Flint said, with an equally wide grin.  
  
Guin wasn't really paying attention; she was watching the first years as Bjornson, Anja, became a Hufflepuff, and Crabbe, Dempsey, was rapidly Sorted into Slytherin. She rather pitied the younger Crabbe brother, as he looked nowhere near as vapid as his older sibling did.  
  
Loren Crawford had seen something beyond the crowd of first-years, and was telling it to Professor Snape, who had appeared in the group and was looking at once triumphant and vindictive. "Uh-oh," L'Argent said, "Someone's about to lose a limb." The source of the miniature commotion was to be found readily enough, as both Potter and Weasley had appeared at the door. Snape, looking as though he had just received an early birthday present, moved over to confront them.  
  
"Crawford, Lawrence?" was repeated, in a somewhat puzzled tone, and then, "Is he here?"  
  
"I'm here!" Loren said, and moved towards the stool, placid-eyed as always. There were more giggles to be heard throughout the Great Hall, but he ignored them and hid his face in the depths of the hat. It took a while to decide where to place the boy, but eventually yelled, "SLYTHERIN!"  
  
As Loren made his way over, Guin waved to him. "Welcome," she said, grandly, "To the best House in the school."  
  
"I'd like to spend some time here before I make up my mind," Loren said, with an impish grin.  
  
"As you like," L'Argent replied, "But Marlowe's not exaggerating, you know."  
  
Snape returned as Weasley, Virginia, was Sorted into Gryffindor. Potter and Weasley were still absent, and the head of Slytherin House was looking rather sour. Guin supposed that the two of them had somehow managed to squirm out of any serious trouble and, judging from the new empty place at the staff table, McGonagall had something to do with it. Clearing his throat, Dumbledore stood up, a serene statue facing the turmoil with a smile. "Welcome, students, to a new year. I hope sincerely," he continued, "That this one shall be calmer than last." This elicited some chuckles from the crowd, especially the teachers.  
  
He continued, and Guin tuned him out again, until Lockhart was introduced. "Joining us this year," the Headmaster concluded, "In the capacity of Defense Against the Dark Arts, is Gilderoy Lockhart." The man in question sprang to his feet, brilliant aquamarine robes shimmering in the candlelight, as he waved enthusiastically at them. "Yes, Gilderoy, I'm sure they're glad to see you, too. Now, we shall sing the school so—" Lockhart was still waving, and Dumbledore, in a dry tone, gestured for him to be seated. "Enough, Gilderoy."  
  
Guin made a gagging noise, and shook her head sadly. "We have to put up with ... /that/ all year. I can't believe it."  
  
"Do you think he's lying about all the stuff he's done in the books?" Loren asked them, sable eyes widening imperceptibly.  
  
"Of course," Ethan said, shaking his head. "My Da investigated it, and he supposes it's all a fraud."  
  
Perhaps Lockhart felt the combined wrath of their table glaring at him, or perhaps he didn't, but his eyes flickered over them briefly before flushing and sitting down hastily. The rest of the school might have been puzzled as to why the Slytherins had suddenly erupted into derisive laughter, but they knew, and more importantly, so did Lockhart.  
  
It looked, Guin thought, like war. 


	5. Hints

------------------------------------------------------  
"We are glad that ... [he] is so pleasant with  
us..."  
-- Henry V, Act I, Scene II – Shakespeare  
------------------------------------------------------  
  
With a yawn, Guin stretched, turned over on her side, and sat up. The Slytherin second-year girls' room was a pleasant sight to wake to. Though there were no openings to the world outside, there was usually, in the winter, a cheerful fire, and year-round enchanted windows. It was a modified version of the spell that showed the sky in the Great Hall. It offered a view of the grounds outside of the school, though there would never be any air to stream through. It was, she supposed, a way of making up for the fact that the Slytherin dorm rooms were in the dungeons, which were generally cold and uncomfortably dank. This morning, though, the sun glistened from behind cotton-bale clouds that drifted serenely by, above an equally blue lake.  
  
None of her year-mates had risen yet. Guin watched them with a somewhat cruel sneer on her face; Millicent was snoring loudly, a line of drool working its way down the side of her face. Pansy, a blonde, pug-faced girl in the bed next to Millicent's, had a wheezing sort of breath pattern, snorting out and then sucking in her cheeks until her face resembled a skeleton. They were both sincerely unpleasant, and Guin supposed that they had been placed in Slytherin only because they fit in none of the other Houses. They might have been ambitious, but they were anything but intelligent – theirs was the dull sort of cunning managed only by the truly moronic.  
  
Guin felt somewhat kinder towards the other girls in the room. Blaise Zabini might at first seem an empty-headed flirt, but Guin knew that there were hidden depths in anyone, even Blaise. Apparently Blaise had learned early on that a silly smile and a giggle hid true feelings and often helped a person to escape from trouble. Teachers loved her, that was one fact for sure. Guin was never sure whether or not she liked the Zabini girl: sometimes, she found herself laughing along, and others, she felt a strange antagonism towards her. Blaise had one odd habit as well, she seemed to find L'Argent ... cute ... in some way. Oh, well, people were to be forgiven eccentric habits.  
  
Jessica Myron and Sally-Ann Perks were close friends, and Guin unconsciously grouped them together. The second-year Slytherin girls were a curious group. In most of the other Houses, all of the children of a certain age tended to band together in confederation. Not so in their year, there were splinter groups of different loyalties. While, with the exception of Millicent and Pansy, each of them genuinely liked the others, there was nothing closer than casual conversation. Blaise, Guin noticed, did not really have /any/ close friends, while Guin herself hung out with Rilla, L'Argent, Ethan, and now, Winston.  
  
In retrospect, there were five Slytherins that were a complete and utter waste of time. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, and Millicent. It was really a shame, Guin thought, but perhaps this year's batch would be a bit more promising. Snapping herself out of her reverie, the girl slid from beneath the warm blankets and onto the floor, dressing silently and slipping from the dorm before anyone else could wake or even hear her leave. They usually slept late, and then had to rush before breakfast. It gave Guin a slight feeling of superiority; she was better disciplined than they. It was a silly feeling, she knew, but one that persisted.  
  
L'Argent was sprawled on one of the silver-green couches strewn around the room, reading. Guin tiptoed quietly up behind him, peering over his shoulder to see the title of the book. "Graduated from The Hardy Boys, mm?" she said.  
  
"Don't sneak up on me," L'Argent said, without looking up, "One of these days you'll scare me to death."  
  
"You don't sound unduly worried," Guin pointed out, "But I'll let you know, I approve of Sherlock Holmes." He was reading The Annotated Holmes: Volume I.  
  
"Thank you," he said dryly, "Because, of course, I couldn't possibly read a book you didn't like."  
  
"No need to state the obvious," Guin retorted, "Though if I remember correctly, you did seem to spend an awful lot of time reading The Ha—"  
  
"Mercy," he said, throwing a pillow at her head.  
  
"Ouch," Guin said cheerfully as it smacked her in the face, replacing it on the couch. "Shouldn't throw furniture, L'Argent. It isn't civilized."  
  
"Hm," he agreed, "As soon as Ethan gets out of there, I'm going for breakfast."  
  
"Good, good," Guin said, "Then I can avoid any other projectiles. Unidentified Flying Cushions."  
  
"I'm here," Ethan said from the doorway, paraphrasing one of L'Argent's common comments, "You can be happy now."  
  
"Were we happy before?" Guin asked L'Argent.  
  
"I was throwing something at your head. I was ecstatic."  
  
"You are an odd little boy."  
  
"Little? I'm taller than you."  
  
"No great feat there," Ethan said, then glanced over his shoulder, amused. "We have company."  
  
Behind him were two of the first-year boys, Loren Crawford and Conal Bannon. Loren, as always, was placid-faced and introspective. Conal was an Irish wizard with light brown hair and a small pair of glasses that perched on the tip of a snub nose. Even at a glance, one could see the vitality in him, and he was a strong contrast to Loren's somber face, but the two were fast becoming a crew. Joining the group, also, was Alisa Bertram, giant glasses taking up the upper half of her head. She was a London native with a strong Cockney accent, and a temper to rival any put forth.  
  
The older children let the firsties tag along after them, answering questions as they went. "I've heard some of the other kids complaining about Peeves," Alisa said.  
  
"Oh," Ethan said with an airy wave of his hand. "He doesn't usually bother us. We're Slytherins."  
  
"I don't see the connection," Loren's precise tones broke in.  
  
"You see," Guin said, "Our House ghost is the Bloody Baron—"  
  
"Who just happens," L'Argent continued, "To be the only ghost – the only /thing/ that Peeves will listen to."  
  
"So by default he leaves the Slytherins alone, unless he wants the Baron to hurt him," Guin finished.  
  
"Ah," Loren said.  
  
"Seems t' me," Conal put in, "We make out best in this school."  
  
"Being a Slytherin has perks and drawbacks," Guin said. "We are the best House in the school, but the other Houses generally hate us."  
  
"Why?" Alisa wanted to know, starting to scowl.  
  
"Well, one of the reasons is stupid," Ethan said, "And completely unfounded. Slytherin's got a reputation for turning out Dark Wizards and Witches."  
  
"Of course," L'Argent said dryly, "They forget that all the Houses, even Gryffindor, turn out their share of turn-coats. The only difference is, Slytherin Dark Wizards are cunning, and Gryffindor Dark Wizards are 'courageous.'"  
  
"I don't think it's fair," Alisa said.  
  
"It isn't," Guin replied, "But it's something we live with and something we get used to."  
  
"The other reason, I think," L'Argent said, as they entered the Great Hall, "Is because being a Slytherin is about ambition. It's not about being noble. And at heart, most people think that way, too, but they don't want to admit it. So they hate Slytherin, because we recognize and relish what they're afraid to be." Guin glanced sideways at him, surprised that anything so poetic could come from his mouth. She had no opportunity to comment on it, however, for they had arrived in the busy breakfasting area of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  
  
Guin avoided the warm cereal and snagged several pieces of bread and some strawberries. On a sudden whim, she pulled the stems from the fruit and placed it between the slices and ate that, a berry sandwich. A commotion at the Gryffindor table – Guin nudged Ethan in the side and pointed her chin towards the place where Ron Weasley sat, looking terrified. "Wonder what's going o—" she began, but got her answer soon enough.  
  
A woman's voice, screaming at an ear-shattering decibel: "RON WEASLEY, OUT OF ALL THE HORRIBLE THINGS YOU'VE DONE IN YOUR LIFE, THIS IS THE WORST, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF, STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY'D EXPELLED YOU, I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK—" With a wince of sympathy and pain, Guin clapped her hands over her ears. Finally the voice died away and there was silence.  
  
Alisa laughed, joined mostly by other Slytherins. Guin blinked and waited for the ringing in her ears to fade before finishing her breakfast calmly enough. The new kids wiggled excitedly in their seats as Snape handed out the schedules. Guin peered at hers, and sighed: Transfiguration, first thing in the morning. "Looks like we've got McGonagall next," Guin groaned.  
  
"Our luck," L'Argent said cheerfully. "I hear its beetles, first."  
  
"Joy," Guin said morosely.  
  
-----  
  
It turned out that Pansy Parkinson was afraid of bugs. As soon as McGonagall put the beetle on her desk, she shrank away from it in horror, squealing. "/Professor/! I /can't/ do this! I don't /like/ beetles!"  
  
"Sometimes, Miss Parkinson," McGonagall replied, "You must do things you don't like. Consider it practice for the real world, if you will."  
  
Guin poked her beetle experimentally with her wand. "It's harder to transfigure living things, isn't it?" she asked.  
  
"Yes," L'Argent said, holding the bug in his hand somberly. "Poor thing. It will be no more – transformed into a cheap tortoiseshell copy – o woe!"  
  
"A regular Shakespearean tragedy," Ethan said. "Stop the dramatics, L'Argent, and get to work."  
  
In Herbology, with the Ravenclaws, they re-potted the remaining mandrakes. Professor Sprout yelled at Winston: his earmuffs had not been put on correctly, and he had almost heard the cries of the roots. Luckily, a sharp-eyed Professor caught the mistake, and the fatal scream of the mandrake was not heard by any of the children. After class, Winston, quite miffed, blinked at them. "Herbology's not a practical class, anyway, unless you're trying to be a gardener..." the boy complained.  
  
Guin caught up with Rilla on the stairs of the Castle. "How was class with the Hunk?" Guin asked her friend sarcastically.  
  
"It was... educational," Rilla said after a moment's hesitation.  
  
"Really? What did he do?"  
  
"Pixies."  
  
"/What/?"  
  
"He let Cornish Pixies free."  
  
"They must've wrecked the room."  
  
"They did."  
  
"He didn't stop them?"  
  
"He... He wanted us to learn how to do it!"  
  
"Rilla, that sounds like an excuse to me."  
  
"You're going to be late," Rilla sniffed, and ran to Potions.  
  
Rejoining the Slytherins, Guin shook her head. "This does not look good."  
  
"Any class with Lockhart will not look good," L'Argent sighed.  
  
"Ril says that he let pixies loose in class."  
  
"Can you explain to me how pixies are related to Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Ethan wanted to know.  
  
"You are preaching," Guin told him, "To the dedicated."  
  
"What a moron," Ethan complained. "Oh, you know what?"  
  
"Hm?" L'Argent asked.  
  
"Potter's giving out signed pictures."  
  
"/No/," Guin said, raising her eyebrows. "That's sickening!"  
  
"Saw it with my own eyes. That Creevey kid was asking for it."  
  
"He's a sheep," Guin said, waving her hand. "Did Potter actually give any out?"  
  
"No," Ethan said gleefully, "He got dragged off by The Git himself."  
  
"Anyone else I would feel sorry for," L'Argent said.  
  
As they entered Lockhart's classroom, there were several Slytherins and a palpable air of tension already present. The teacher sat at his desk, looking slightly frazzled, his turquoise robes ripped in the sleeve. "Hello, class," he said, flashing a smile at them. Guin rolled her eyes at L'Argent, but unfortunately, that just caught his attention. "A question, Miss Marlowe?" he said, beaming.  
  
"Uh – no, /sir/," Guin said, with all the sarcasm she could muster.  
  
"Good, good," he said, not noticing. "I am Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Forces Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award."  
  
"As if we didn't know who he was already," Ethan whispered.  
  
"We wish we didn't," L'Argent corrected.  
  
"Problems, boys?" Lockhart asked, grinning still, but now it seemed a bit forced.  
  
"No, sir," they chorused, as smart and prompt as one could wish.  
  
Collecting himself, Lockhart blinked at the assembly. "As the pixies which I had caught for first period's lesson are ... temporarily unavailable, we shall be reading through one of my books, Gadding With Ghouls. Lovely title, don't you think?" he said, winking.  
  
They stared blankly.  
  
"Joke....funny...." he said.  
  
They continued to stare.  
  
"Right," Lockhart said. "My defeat of the Cyprean Chimera—"  
  
"Excuse me, sir," L'Argent said, raising his hand.  
  
"Yes?" Lockhart said, teeth grinding a bit.  
  
"That's either a mistake, or a lie," L'Argent said with a sweet smile.  
  
"Five points from Slytherin! Are you calling me a liar?!"  
  
"No," L'Argent said calmly, "But there is only one verified case in which a wizard killed a chimera, sir, and that was Bellephron. With Pegasus."  
  
"I – uh – turn to page four, please, and you will find out how to beat a chimera, Mr. L'Argent."  
  
They read from the book for the rest of the period, and it was deathly dull until Lockhart seemed to have an idea. Guin could tell, because he suddenly brightened up, his previously frazzled appearance neatening a bit. "I know! Let's do dramatic readings. I'll read my part, and Mr. L'Argent can be the chimera, and you, Miss Marlowe, you can be the Cyprean girl that I saved. All you do is scream, but I'm sure that's not a problem?"  
  
Guin smiled at him in an expression that was really more of a snarl. "No, sir. No problem at all."  
  
She had never been so glad to hear a bell ring, and darted from the room and into the hallway. "I thought that would /never/ end!" Guin moaned.  
  
"He's worse than I thought," Ethan said.  
  
"Much worse," L'Argent finished, shaking his head.  
  
"'You don't do much except scream. That's not a problem, is it?'" Guin mocked, taking a mincing step along the hallway. "He's not a teacher at all."  
  
L'Argent said, "Wish we could've gotten pixies."  
  
Ethan said, "Guess he won't be bringing live specimens again."  
  
While walking, they must have taken a wrong turn. This was a hallway which Guin had never seen before, a gloomy looking place with stone busts of wizards that invariably had sour expressions upon their faces. In the distance, the wind whispered through the hall—no, wait, that was impossible. Wind, inside? It was ... it sounded like...  
  
"Who needs pixies when you have dramatic reading?" Guin said sarcastically, then frowned. "Wait a minute – shut up for a minute."  
  
Puzzled, though obliging, the boys fell silent. "What—?" L'Argent began.  
  
"Hush!" Guin said, then shook her head. "It's gone, never mind."  
  
"/What/ is?" Ethan asked.  
  
"I... I thought I heard someone crying."  
  
They all stopped, listening, but whoever had made the noises was gone. 


	6. Escargot

----------------------------------------------------------  
"She has old ghosts that I have shown to her."  
-- Neil Gaiman, The Doll's House  
----------------------------------------------------------  
  
"So much work," Guin groaned, as she flopped onto her four-poster bed, with the pale green curtains thrown carelessly to the sides. She was weary, but with the ache that comes from a day spent thinking, rather than doing. She was glad to lie down, as the desks of Hogwarts were not designed with student comfort in mind. "And it's only the first day."  
  
"Professor Snape isn't going easy on us, either," Sally-Ann said glumly, shaking her head and sending lank blond hair whipping in every direction. "A lab report on Melting Magics."  
  
"I like Potions," Jessica said after a moment's pause. She was taciturn, usually, and so all heads in the room turned towards her to see what she had to say. "It's a lot like chemistry, at my old school. You just have to mix things correctly."  
  
"Not all of us," Blaise Zabini said languorously, and perhaps just a bit sarcastically, "Have the benefit of being Muggle-born." She stretched leisurely, twirling a raven curl around one finger while reclining on the bed. Her pose seemed wrong somehow, it did not fit a girl of her age.  
  
"No, you don't," Jessica said, her voice a quiet though steely murmur, "I have to admit you're at a disadvantage."  
  
"Touché!" cried Blaise, clapping her hands together in a sardonic expression of delight. It seemed that there were breaks to her amicable exterior, after all. Guin filed that information away for further reference. "Ah, our resident mouse has a tongue in her head after all!"  
  
"Lay off, Zabini," Sally-Ann said. Jessica's dark, catlike face had slivered to an indescribable expression, compounded of hurt and annoyance.  
  
"What was that, Jess?" Guin asked. The other girl had whispered something, in a voice too soft to hear.  
  
"I said I can take care of myself."  
  
"Blaise, what's with you today?" Sally-Ann asked, eyes narrowing shrewdly. "If I have a guess, I'd say it's something to do with a boy, mm? In love with the new Professor?" She fluttered her translucent eyelashes mockingly, twisting her neck and head into a pining stare.  
  
To their delight, Blaise blushed, and turned up her nose. "No!"  
  
"Come on, we know you too well," Guin said, "We know the look, too. That's the 'I've been turned down by a boy' look."  
  
"I've never even had a boyfriend!"  
  
"That's your main ambition in life," Guin said serenely.  
  
"Give her time," Sally-Ann said seriously as she peered at the other children, "She's only twelve."  
  
"For your information, I had a very intellectual chat with Professor Lockhart after class," Blaise said with a haughty air.  
  
"Oh, really?" Guin said dubiously, "What did you talk about? Hair-care products?"  
  
Blaise turned even redder. "Um. Yes."  
  
Sally-Ann and Guin snickered, but Jessica merely smiled. "'Night," she said, contented, and drew the curtains around her bed, hiding herself from view.  
  
After a moment, Guin did the same, slumping back onto the pillow. Sliding under the covers, folded crisply by the house-elves, the girl tossed over on her side, attempting to find a comfortable position. With a wide yawn, Guin shut her eyes and waited to drift off. She rarely dreamed, or if she did, rarely remembered what they had been about. One odd dream that stuck in her mind involved rabbits in trench-coats and a bright-pink old-fashioned bathroom. Perhaps, Guin thought muzzily, it was best that she didn't remember them.  
  
She was unable to tell the exact point at which her somewhat tangled thought process abruptly relinquished its hold on her brain, but it moved seamlessly. A jumble of images and sounds thrown from the deepest realms of her subconscious were presented before her, playing in an endless loop of motion and cacophony.  
  
A girl's voice, begging for mercy, strained with pain and terror; a man's tongue, shrieking rage and agony to the sky; her mother's tones, chanting wordlessly with a smug evocation of satisfaction. Blood death fear FEAR blackness – respite, oblivion. Angeline's face, lit from below by a stage light, with the soft yellow glow making caverns in her face, smiling white teeth showing in too-young features image from the past with golden curls and sea green eyes and icy vainess. Locked in a battle of will with an alien presence – Angeline's resolution forced the other down—  
  
Guin sat up abruptly, sweating. What she had been dreaming about was completely lost to her, but the girl knew it had been something— something— she shuddered and wiped her forehead. Whatever it had been, it was a nameless night-terror, and she was no longer a child. With a determination that belonged to one much older, the girl clamped her mouth into a thin line, lay back on the pillow, and drifted off to sleep. In the morning, she would not even remember waking.  
  
Such was the way of dreams.  
  
-----  
  
"Something wrong, Guin? You don't look so good this morning."  
  
"Hm?" Guin said absently, glancing at Rilla. She had not slept well, and had a pounding headache.  
  
"You've got circles under your eyes."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"You'd tell me if something was wrong."  
  
"'Course I would."  
  
"You wouldn't be noble and not say anything?"  
  
"C'mon, Ril. Me, noble? That's like Lockhart actually having something intelligent to say."  
  
"He's not as bad as you think!"  
  
"Oh yes, he is."  
  
"He's not!"  
  
"Were you paying attention during his class?"  
  
"Well, I was hiding from the pixies at the time—"  
  
"See?"  
  
"No!"  
  
"Arguing, ladies?" L'Argent asked, appearing behind them. "You look lovely this morning," he told Guin with a smirk, while offering her an imaginary bouquet of flowers.  
  
"Thanks ever so," she replied, in equally sardonic vein, "Rilla pointed that out, as well."  
  
"What is that ravishing hue of eye shadow? Black-Eye Purple?"  
  
"Ha. Ha. You're funny, L'Argent, just hilarious," she said sourly.  
  
"I know."  
  
"Maybe you should try it on someone who's in the mood to hear."  
  
"Ouch. She's biting this morning. Any clue as to the sudden transformation, Ril?"  
  
"No," the blue-eyed girl replied, and was about to say more when Guin yawned. Rilla couldn't help the contagious action, she yawned as well, and rubbed her eyes. "I assume she didn't sleep well. Whatever it is she won't say, in any event."  
  
"Awww," L'Argent said. "Did you have bad dreams, Marlowe? Were you scared? Miss your teddy-bear?"  
  
"You know, I think you'd be a lot prettier missing an arm. Or two. Or maybe just missing your mouth," Guin said, in no mood for banter. Though she remembered falling asleep, the girl supposed that she'd slept badly. Perhaps she had been lying in a funny position. Whatever the cause, she did not feel like doing anything that morning. In fact, she didn't feel like doing anything at all, this week. "I think I'm skipping Defense on Monday," she informed L'Argent.  
  
"You can't do that!" Rilla said, shocked. "You can't skip classes."  
  
"Watch me," Guin said.  
  
They ate breakfast in silence. For once, L'Argent decided to keep his mouth shut, and it was decidedly to his advantage. By the end of the meal Guin's temper had cooled somewhat and she was able to address him civilly, without any undue threats of murder or dismemberment. "So did you hear?" he said to her.  
  
"Hear what?"  
  
"Malfoy's the new Seeker for our team this year."  
  
"Oh, no!" Guin said, face falling. "We'll /never/ win now."  
  
"His dad's given Nimbus 2001's to the team. Bought his way on. Slimy bugger."  
  
"What a git!" Guin said, disgusted.  
  
"Yeah," L'Argent said moodily. "There had to have been a better choice."  
  
"Not for Seeker. I might've tried out, but I play Chaser."  
  
"Me, too."  
  
"I didn't know that."  
  
"And Beater. But only sometimes."  
  
"He's going to ruin everything. He can fly, but can he catch a Snitch?"  
  
"Snape doesn't look to happy about it, though. He's given them time to train this morning because he's got no confidence in Malfoy. The whole team went out about fifteen minutes ago."  
  
"I can imagine! Hey – they're back already?" Guin said, glancing up in surprise. The entire Slytherin team, laughing raucously, had come into the Great Hall, followed by the Gryffindor team, who were looking murderous. "I wonder what happened..."  
  
"We'll find out soon enough – Flint's going to say something."  
  
Marcus Flint, the captain of the Slytherin team and a boy who was not exactly a first-rate intellect, stood upon a chair and waved his arms for silence. "I'd like to congratulate the Gryffindor team—" he began, to sniggers from his teammates, "For being related to – ah – true magical talent," Flint smirked, grinning ghoulishly at the waiting crowd. The Gryffindors were glowering darkly. "I'm sure Ronald Weasley will enjoy belching up slugs the rest of the afternoon.  
  
"Thank you," he said, jumping heavily from the chair.  
  
People laughed, though the Slytherins loudest of all. The giggles of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs was more nervous tittering than any real show of hilarity, though Guin thought the situation was really quite funny. The Weasleys had not made themselves popular among those of the green and silver; they were generally biased against even the most mild of Slytherins, like Jessica. "Well, that was amusing," Guin said, fighting a grin.  
  
"Yes, and miraculous, too."  
  
"'Miraculous'?"  
  
"It got you to smile, didn't it?"  
  
They were able to see the unfortunate Weasley-child after lunch. He and Potter were sitting outside on the stairs, away from the main crush of people, with a large bucket handy to catch Ron's occasional bouts of slug-burping. "What do you want?" he asked sourly, seeing the two Slytherins walking by. Anything else he had been about to say was cut off by another slug attack; Guin watched in fascination as he coughed up the slimy, disgusting bugs. They erupted from his mouth and slithered over his lips; Weasley's face was bright red, clashing with his hair.  
  
"You know, Weasley," Guin said cheerfully, "If you saved those, you could open up a restaurant."  
  
"Specializing in escargot," L'Argent added, nodding sagely.  
  
"What do you want?" Potter demanded, dark green eyes narrowing.  
  
"We merely wanted to see the Amazing Slug-Boy," Guin replied with a slightly nasty smile. "It's not every day you see something like that."  
  
"Go away, Marlowe," Ron said weakly, glaring at her.  
  
"As always, lovely talking to you," L'Argent said in a courtly fashion, throwing an elegant bow and trotting ahead of Guin. "Last one to the front lawn's a rotten egg!"  
  
"I guess that's me, then, because I have no intention of running, you dunce!" Guin yelled after him, taking her time as she followed. Before they left, she thought she heard Potter say something to Weasley, but she didn't quite catch it.  
  
"They're like a married couple," Harry muttered to Ron, who rolled his eyes.  
  
"/Slytherins/."  
  
-----  
  
"Let's beg some brooms off of Hooch and go flying," L'Argent suggested, puppy-dog gray eyes pleading. "C'mon, Guin, it'll get you to stop moping around."  
  
"Flying where?"  
  
"I don't know. Over the lawns. Over the lake."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Though she was initially skeptical, the stocky Flying instructor agreed to lend Guin and L'Argent a pair of broomsticks, both of which were old and decrepit to the extreme. "They're the best I can let you take. Don't take them off the grounds," she said, ticking off the points on her fingers, "Don't go in the Forest. Have them back by two. If they're damaged in any way, shape, or form, you're both getting detentions."  
  
"Don't worry, Madam Hooch," Guin reassured her, muttering out of the side of her mouth to L'Argent. "I swear. She and Madam Pince are obsessive."  
  
"Yes."  
  
They slid easily onto the brooms, Cushioning Charms making it easier to sit down. Guin kicked off from the ground, shooting up into the air as fast as she could go. Last year, during Flying class, Neville Longbottom had done the exact same thing, though not on purpose. He had fallen and broken his arm, though Guin was not that clumsy. L'Argent followed, urging his broom higher. For a while, they amused themselves that way, racing to see who could attain the greatest heights the fastest. Eventually, though, when the people below were tiny specks traversing along the grass, L'Argent yelled over to her. "This is high enough!"   
  
"Chicken!" she yelled back, and he grinned.  
  
"Sensible."  
  
"It amounts to the same thing."  
  
"Race you to the ground!" he yelled, going into a dive.  
  
"Cheater!" she screamed furiously after him, but spiraled down after him quickly enough.  
  
"Slytherin," he corrected her with an infuriating grin, "Who's a chicken now?" The wind whipped his words away. The ground grew closer – closer – she swerved upward to avoid crashing, and hovered about ten feet above the surface, catching her breath.  
  
"Whew," she said.  
  
"I won," L'Argent said with a dimpled smile.  
  
"You started before me."  
  
"Details, details."  
  
They drifted along at that height, enjoying the day. Guin was feeling more awake, the problems sleeping that had plagued her earlier that day did not bother her nearly so much. "Hm." They were near the edge of the grounds, now, on the boundary. "Let's head back. Madam Hooch will murder us if we don't."  
  
"Wait – who's that?" L'Argent said, whipping his head around.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"That's odd. I could have sworn I saw something silvery over there. Like a person."  
  
"A ghost?"  
  
"No, I don't think so... Whatever it is isn't there anymore."  
  
"Odd," Guin said, looking around. She saw no one. "Look, let's go."  
  
"...Right," he said vaguely, peering over his shoulder on the way back.   
  
A sudden idea made Guin grin. She kicked her broom into top speed. "Race you!" she called over her shoulder.   
  
"Hey! That's not fair!" L'Argent yelled, and hurried to catch up. 


	7. The Chamber Opens

--------------------------------------------------------------------  
"It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."  
  
"Dark enough, and sinister enough."  
  
-- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Speckled Band  
--------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Weather like this always makes me depressed," Rilla said, looking morosely at the ceiling. She and Guin lingered in the Great Hall, which was unusually chilly and damp for October. Over her black Hogwarts robes, Rilla was wearing a thick fluffy sweater, and glared at anyone who mentioned it. "I don't like the cold!" she'd tell them, "And I don't care if it's part of the uniform." Unfortunately for Rilla, the sweater had a large, disgustingly cute rabbit on the front, with wide, distended eyes that stared forlornly out onto the room. She had received several comments about it, and those that had met her rarely roused wrath.  
  
"I don't know," Guin said thoughtfully, as she glanced upward as well, "It's interesting, as well. There's promise behind it."  
  
"You're crazy," Rilla said, watching gray clouds squiggle across the sky in a listless, depressed manner. "It's impossible to be happy in /that/."  
  
A sudden explosion of lightning burst outside, immediately followed by a crack of thunder. Some girls in the hall shrieked and covered their heads, causing Guin to roll her eyes in disgust. From above, heavy raindrops began to fall, pattering down on the stone steps and onto the castle. Guin, still looking up at the sky – the ceiling – said absently, "I think one reason I like rain is because it makes you feel powerful..."  
  
"It makes you feel /what/?" Rilla said, eyeing her friend askance.  
  
"Powerful. The rain's falling, but you're warm and you're inside and dry. It's like mastery over nature. Rain makes the heat feel warmer."  
  
"Crazy," Rilla repeated, with conviction.  
"Let's go," Guin said, "Rain or shine, Snape's waiting."  
  
"That's a wonderful way to cheer me up."  
  
"As always, I am a paragon of merriment."  
  
"That was a frightening statement, from you."  
  
"I aim to scare."  
  
"Hi, girls!" That was Holly Weatherfield, passing in the other direction.  
  
"...Hi," Guin said, unenthusiastically.  
  
"I hope the sun comes out soon," Holly said, "You both look rather pale."  
  
"Thank you, Holly," Guin said.  
  
"Oh, you're welcome!"  
  
Rilla and Guin glanced at each other, and then at the girl. Scrutinizing Holly's face carefully, Guin attempted to figure out whether she was being serious, or whether she was just a very, very good actor. After a moment's thought, it was quite evident that Holly was in deadly earnest, judging from the beaming smile plastered on her face.  
  
"Well," she said, waving at Guin, "I'd love to stay and chat, but I have Transfiguration! Toodles, girls!"  
  
"Toodles," Guin repeated, once Holly had retreated from sight. "Now /that/ is depressing, not the weather at all."  
  
"Right," Rilla said, shaking her head.  
  
"Ril?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"If I ever start acting like Weatherfield, will you kill me?"  
  
"Guin!"  
  
"I'm serious," Guin said, chuckling as they walked down to the dungeons, "Will you?"  
  
"Guin!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"That's... That's /morbid/."  
  
"Your point?"  
  
"I don't even want to think about that."  
  
"Suit yourself."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Well? Will you?" Guin grinned and dodged to the left as Rilla attempted to punch her in the arm. The Gryffindor flailed her arms futilely at her. "Ouch!" Guin yelped, as Rilla's palm connected with her shoulder. "Okay, okay, if I'll change the statement, if I ever start talking like Holly, just ignore me. And if I ever recover, don't remind me."  
  
"Why do I even bother?" Rilla asked the ceiling rhetorically, as they moved deeper into the entrails of the castle. It was familiar ground, for Guin; not only were the dungeons and the potions classroom located here, but the entrance to the Slytherin Common room was not far away. The slightly damp stone walls had long ago lost their menace, and the melancholy air of the tunnels had a homey feel, for her.  
  
"Because you're a nice, decent person, and I'm not?"  
  
"Besides that."  
  
"You're devoted to lost causes?"  
  
"Could be," Rilla said. They paused before the low entrance to Snape's classroom. Several stairs led deeper into the room, and they could see the students sitting down and glancing expectantly towards Snape's desk. "Oh, no!" Rilla exclaimed, "We're late! Oh, that horrible Holly... If she'd hadn't been talking to us..."  
  
"Ril, just /walk/!" Guin said, and they hurried down into the dungeon.  
  
-----  
  
"Miss Jackson? You had pressing business elsewhere?" Snape said, a sardonic smile curling his mouth. Rilla went pale and looked at the floor, lip trembling. Guin sighed and put a hand to her forehead. Her friend had always been a little afraid of Snape, and it didn't help that he was being sarcastic to her. The girl, though possessed of some inner fire, was not the bravest person on a normal basis – and Snape made her extremely nervous.  
  
"I – I –"  
  
"Come now, I know the life of a Gryffindor must be very occupying. Perhaps--"  
  
"Professor!"  
  
"Yes, Miss Marlowe?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Professor, it was my fault she was late—"  
  
Snape's glittering black eyes turned on her, brows raising in disbelief. "I'm sure, Miss Marlowe. A point from Gryffindor."  
  
"But—" Rilla said, growing indignant.  
  
"Miss Jackson, I would like to begin the lesson now. If you have any objections you may see me after class."  
  
"Ril," Guin whispered, "Let it go." The two girls sat down at a desk, across the row from L'Argent and Ethan and behind Potter and Weasley.  
  
"Now that this disturbance has been sorted out," Snape continued, sable eyes glittering, "We shall start the lesson. Today, you will learn the careful art of brewing a Freezing Fluid..."  
  
Rilla frowned at the cauldrons as they set them on the table, heaving an emotional, eloquent sigh. Potions was far from her favorite subject, and, as Snape had remarked more than once, she should never, ever marry Neville Longbottom, for fear that between the two of them, they might accidentally destroy the world, or at least several nearby buildings. Guin had been forced to admit, Rilla made some memorable pratfalls – like the time she inadvertently sprouted two extra arms after drinking a new draught – or the time a spilled potion gone awry had boiled a hole straight through the stone desk and into the floor – or even the time when the exploding cauldron had caused the ceiling to rain lizard intestines for hours?  
  
Guin, to her dismay, actually liked the class. Perhaps it was because Professor Snape was remarkably nicer to the Slytherins than to their opposite house, or because her years in Shadehurst had prepared her for the work, but she found Potions fairly simple, at least compared to Transfiguration. Something about the simmering noise the cauldron made was soothing, and even though the dungeons were chilly now, in the summer they were a cool relief.  
  
"...Now add the worms' kidneys, please..."  
  
Rilla refused to touch the slimy organs, and pleaded with Guin until the Slytherin, exasperated, threw up her hands and agreed. "Look, Ril, you can wash your hands when you're done..."  
  
"I don't care, I am /not/ touching those things."  
  
In front of them, Potter and Weasley were conferring quietly, their heads bent over their cauldron, which was emitting occasional spurts of icy blue bubbles, which hovered above the rim before popping in loud bursts. "I don't think it's supposed to be doing that," Weasley was saying, scratching his forehead for a moment.  
  
"Definitely not," Potter agreed, "Maybe we need more ice?" They were working busily after a second's pause.  
  
Guin examined the contents of her own cauldron, and was satisfied that they were correct. The liquid had a thick consistency, but was completely clear. Small sparkles drifted through its body, and all things considered, it was quite beautiful. That was fine; she just needed to let it simmer for fifteen minutes. The magic fire beneath was burning steadily – now she was free to ask a question that had been bothering her for the day.  
  
Reaching forward, she poked Potter lightly in the neck with the end of her quill. He swatted at it, obviously assuming there was a bug flying around his head. Guin rolled her eyes and tried again; this time, he slapped his neck irritably, without even turning around. "You're unusually perceptive today, Potter," she drawled as he twisted around in his seat.  
  
"Shut up, Marlowe," Weasley said.  
  
Guin sighed. "Was I talking to you?"  
  
"We wish you weren't," he replied.  
  
"As always, your charm never ceases to captivate me. Can I have your babies?" ("/Guin/!" Rilla whispered, shocked.)  
  
"Very funny," he growled, though his face had turned slightly pink, "Why are all the jokers put in Slytherin?"  
  
"As much as I love bandying words with you, Weasley, I've got a pressing question for Potter." Something about Ron Weasley brought out every sarcastic instinct in her body to the fore. Perhaps it was his quite biased hatred of all things Slytherin and snake-oriented.  
  
"What is it, Marlowe?" Potter said.  
  
"So, is it true?"  
  
"Is what true?" he asked suspiciously.  
  
"The signed pictures," Guin said, enjoying the sudden crimson flush that moved across his face.  
  
"Sod off, Marlowe, you know I didn't want him to do that—"  
  
"You 'just did what you had to do,' I suppose?"  
  
"Don't answer her, Harry," Weasley interjected, in a tone that was obviously meant to be dignified, and failed quite miserably.  
  
"Your potion's boiling over," Guin pointed out helpfully.  
  
Potter said several words that would definitely have caused his aunt to wash his mouth out with soap. It was just his luck, or lack of it, that Snape was wandering through the aisles examining the students' work. "Language, Potter," he said lazily, "Five points from Gryffindor." He turned away then, and Potter and Weasley made faces at Guin behind his back.  
  
"Guin, don't you think you were a little mean to them?" Rilla whispered to her, as Weasley glared poisonously and Potter went back to his work.  
  
Guin whispered back. "Ril, if he was handing out /signed photos/ then he deserved it."  
  
"But he said that he didn't want them handed out..."  
  
"But they were anyway."  
  
"Guin, that's silly logic."  
  
"That's what I do best."  
  
-----  
  
"Guin! Guess what?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Dumbledore's got a troupe of dancing skeletons booked for the Halloween dance, today."  
  
"Really?" Guin said, interested despite herself. They sat in the abandoned classroom that had been discovered last year; Rilla on a chair, L'Argent in another, and Guin sprawled on several cushions that had been thrown haphazardly onto the floor. "That should be interesting." She grinned suddenly, slightly malicious. "Parkinson's going to be scared out of her mind."  
  
Rilla giggled. "I can just see that. 'Eeee, Malfoy, there are BONES dancing on the stage! Save meeeee!'"  
  
Guin shuddered elegantly and returned her attention to the book. "Maybe she'll be sick and unable to attend."  
  
"I doubt we'll be that lucky, Ril," L'Argent said, pausing in his sketch. It was, from Guin's best look, a careful drawing of an owl in flight.  
  
"Well, it never hurts to hope," Rilla said gloomily.  
  
None of them, under any circumstances, would have predicted what happened next. Liadan, seated on the floor near Guin, suddenly turned to the wall and hissed loudly. The tiny kitten grew louder as the seconds went by and they stared, bewildered, at each other. By now her fur had stood on end and so had her tail, Liadan looked as though she had been struck by lightning, a tiny ball of hair sticking in all directions. And, from Rilla's pocket, a low noise came, sounding like a wailing wind whispering through willows.  
  
"What the—" Guin exclaimed, as Rilla fished frantically in the pockets of her robe.  
  
"Ouch! Jesus – ouch – don't touch it, don't touch it, it's burning!" Rilla yelped. On the floor, still wailing and emitting faint traces of steam, was the crystal that she had found in the Forbidden Forest last year. Guin and L'Argent had used it to find Rilla when a Dark Wizard kidnapped her, but since then, it had shown no signs of magic. Rilla had kept it all the same.  
  
Now, however, all three children stared at it. There were misty shapes moving within the crystalline rock, indecipherable and quite different from the sharp, clear scene that it had shown near the end of last year. Rilla was sucking on her fingers, which had blistered painfully. "Mmf – wha' 'pp'n'd?" she muttered around her hand, wincing, tears springing to her eyes.  
  
"I – I don't know. Liadan, stop that," Guin admonished the cat, who was still spitting viciously at the wall.  
  
"Rilla," L'Argent said, in a surprisingly gentle voice to the crying girl, "Let me see your hand."  
  
"No," she mumbled, tears streaming down her face, "'Urts."  
  
"We should take her to Madam Pomfrey," Guin said lightly, trying not to show that she was worried.  
  
"We'd have to explain how she was burnt," L'Argent said, frown crawling across his forehead, "Do we want to show Dumbledore the crystal?"  
  
"Here," Rilla said with a wince, wiping her burnt fingers on her shirt and then holding them out.  
  
L'Argent drew his wand from his robes and frowned at them. "I've been practicing this spell, but I don't know if it works. I'm not much of a healer..."  
  
"Well, you know more than either of us about it," Guin said abashedly, "I didn't even think to research medi-spells..."  
  
"Can you stop talking," Rilla said weakly, "And try something on the hand?"  
  
"Sorry," L'Argent said quickly, closed his eyes, and flicked his wand. "Confortari." Guin watched with interest as the blisters smoothed themselves out slowly, ever so slowly. After a moment all that was left on Rilla's hand was a red rash over her fingers. The tears stopped and Rilla sniffed, turning her hand over and over to examine it.  
  
"Thank you, Mikael. It – it hardly hurts anymore..."  
  
Guin reached out a tentative hand to touch the crystal, which had gone blank in the intervening time. It was ice-cold, silent, and showed absolutely no sign of any sort of magic. "Strange," Guin said, "And Liadan's calmed, as well. I wonder what that could have been?"  
  
From somewhere in the castle, a magical bell rang, signaling that the Halloween feast was to begin in a half-hour. "Oh, no!" Rilla exclaimed, "I have to change – I've got dirt /all/ over my robes and my face is red—" And she jumped up and ran from the room.  
  
"You wouldn't even know," L'Argent said with amusement, "That just a minute ago, she was sobbing."  
  
"Gryffindors," Guin replied, with an airy wave of her hand. They got to their feet and ambled at a more leisurely pace towards the Slytherin Common room.  
  
-----  
  
Last Halloween feast, Professor Quirrell had set a troll loose in the castle and the party ended in complete and utter chaos. Guin's favorite memory of the event was Pansy Parkinson almost strangling Draco Malfoy. It seemed as though exciting things (not to mention near murders) were always happening at Hogwarts, and Guin thanked whatever deities who might have been listening for the fact that she was magic. Perhaps, though, they might manage to have a feast where something didn't happen to disturb it. Guin changed into a cleaner set of robes and combed her hair quickly, time was running out before the Halloween feast was to begin.  
  
L'Argent and Ethan were waiting for her in the Common Room, both with their faces red from scrubbing and their hair slightly wet in an attempt at looking neater. Ethan, with his flyaway brown hair, was a lost cause; it looked very much as though a family of birds or small mammals had nested on top of his head. L'Argent actually managed to pass himself off as presentable, though there was a smudge of dirt on his cheek that he'd missed. "Where're the girls?" she wanted to know.  
  
Ethan said, "Jessica and Sally-Ann said they didn't want to bother waiting."  
  
L'Argent said, "Blaise was gone before we got here."  
  
Ethan said, "And the firsties left in a group."  
  
"Let's go, then," Guin said, frowning at the clock on the wall. Its times changed as needed, and at the moment, the minute hand was inching dangerously close to 'Late to the Feast, Lazy.'  
  
The boys agreed, and they walked through the portal hole and into the hallway. "Hey – look," L'Argent whispered, "It's the Dream Team." And it was, indeed. They stopped in the shadows to watch as Potter, Hermione, and Weasley were walking quickly to the dungeons, looking slightly shifty. Guin sighed. The Gryffindors had little talent for deception, and it was obvious that the three were doing something they weren't supposed to.  
  
"So they get in trouble if they're caught," Guin said philosophically, "Let's go, I'm hungry."  
  
Shrugging, the three Slytherins moved at a half-run to the Great Hall, just in time to catch the last words of Dumbledore's speech. "...Enjoy!" Guin sighed as they slipped into the seats. She could see Malfoy at the end of the table, chatting with Blaise Zabini about Quidditch, but across from Guin sat the three first years they'd met earlier in the year, Loren, Alisa, and Conal.  
  
"'Lo," Conal said.  
  
"Happy Halloween," Alisa said.  
  
Loren said nothing, but watched them with a half-smile on his face. Guin examined the hall. It was draped with swooping black streamers, hanging from the ceiling and dangling over the tables, and someone had performed a Spider Charm, and new, ancient-looking webs connected the corners of the walls and the streamers. Hagrid's pumpkins, as always, leered unpleasantly on either side of each door. Guin had never liked them; she suspected that they watched the students carefully when the teachers weren't looking.  
  
On a stage near the staff table creaked a troupe of dancing skeletons. Without fail, all of them were tall, skinny, and well, bony. Some sort of spell was holding their bones in place, and she spent several seconds trying to figure out what it was before giving up. They gavotted, they waltzed, they jitterbugged, and they performed the Charleston with effortless ease. Guin found it rather dull after a few moments of watching, and turned her attention once more to the Slytherin table, where the talk was animated, the conversation lively, and, for the most part, the faces friendly.  
  
-----  
  
After the feast, the laughing, chattering students spilled past the eerie pumpkins and into the hallways, heading back to their dormitories filled with food and camaraderie. Guin felt unpleasantly full and rather sleepy, and was looking forward to sleep. She had managed to shove her way to the head of the crowd, and L'Argent followed her, silent. They didn't need to talk, not in this scenario: hundreds of yelling students prevented any sort of potential conversation.  
  
"What's that?" L'Argent demanded suddenly, shouting in order to be heard over the din.  
  
Guin realized that water was soaking through her shoes, and glanced up obediently. She gasped: written on the wall, in large green letters were the words: "THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE." That was it, the only writing, a cryptic message but – hanging on the wall was – the still form of a cat. Mrs. Norris.  
  
And Potter, Weasley, and Hermione staring openmouthed at her form.  
  
Draco Malfoy shoved her aside, pallid features flushed crimson. "Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"  
  
Guin elbowed him in the stomach, and hissed viciously. "Shut up, Malfoy!"  
  
"Make me, Muggle-lover."  
  
"Take that back, you little git—"  
  
L'Argent pushed Malfoy aside, too, and stood next to Guin. "...Christ." The other students had seen, and the period of pure silence was replaced by more shouting, people trying to figure out what was going on, but no luck for any of the theories yet. Mrs. Norris wasn't helping, either, simply hanging from the torch, stone dead.  
  
"This should be interesting," Guin whispered to L'Argent, nudging his attention into the direction of Filch, who had arrived on the scene.  
  
"What's going on here? What's going on?" he shouted irritably, but then his eyes fell on the cat and he gasped loudly. "My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?"  
  
Guin couldn't help snickering softly to herself, the whole scene had a sort of macabre comedy to it. Potter and Weasley were still gaping dumbly at the cat. "You! You!" yelled Filch, catching sight of them, "You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll—" His eyes glinted madly, and it looked as though he was about to lunge for Potter right there and then. Fortunately for the Boy Who Lived, Dumbledore appeared just then.  
  
He calmly lifted Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket, and Guin noticed that she was completely stiff, and retained the same position that she had while hanging. "Come with me, Argus," Dumbledore said firmly, "You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger."  
  
There was a glint of golden hair from the crowd, as well, and Gilderoy Lockhart ("Not /him/," groaned L'Argent) smiled winningly at Dumbledore. "My office is nearest, Headmaster – just upstairs – please feel free—"  
  
"Git," Guin said again, glaring at the Professor.  
  
"Thank you, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said placidly, and the Dream Team was marched off miserably behind him, heads hanging. Filch was still yelling hysterically, despite their efforts to calm him. Guin rubbed her temples with a sigh, feeling a headache coming on.  
  
"Let's go," she murmured to L'Argent and Ethan, "Nothing left to see here." 


End file.
